


A Destiny Which Makes Us Brothers

by Bitterblue33



Category: 13 Reasons Why (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mr. and Mrs. Jensen Will Show Up Frequently As Well, Non-Chronological, One Shots Centered Mainly on Clay and Justin, Protective Siblings, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-05-15 02:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 82,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterblue33/pseuds/Bitterblue33
Summary: Snapshots of Justin and Clay as they navigate what it means to be brothers post 2x13.Also featuring: Justin learning what it means to have a stable family and both boys starting on a path to healing and recovery.





	1. When You're In The Trenches

**Author's Note:**

> “ There is a destiny which makes us brothers; none goes his way alone. All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own.”  
> – Edwin Markham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay has a nightmare. Justin helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set relatively soon after 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: Very brief referenced non-consensual kissing
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, **1** , 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Justin shifted uncomfortably in his bed, trying to dismiss the sounds of distress coming from across the room. Clay was just having a nightmare. And really, as far as life went these days, that was only a minor inconvenience. Not worth getting worked up over. In fact, Justin suspected that if he did do something, Clay would get annoyed. 

He turned on his side, trying to block out the sound of Clay’s limbs shuffling restlessly, of the little murmurs that signaled torment and desperation. Surely it would pass in a few minutes. Surely.

But it didn’t, and Justin flinched. _Fuck_. He couldn’t just lie here while his new brother battled who-the-fuck-knows-what in an inescapable hellscape. Inaction belonged to the Justin of the past. But, even with his mind resolved, he could not get his body to move. What exactly was the protocol in these situations?

Justin was no stranger to unexpected awakenings. He thought of Aaron, his mother’s third husband, who used to dump a glass of water on him when he woke the household with his night terrors. Or Geordie’s drunken ass, whose sour kiss he had woken up to more than once, when the asshole had mistaken Justin’s bed for his mother’s. And how many times had he awoken to Bryce laughing his ass off because of the way Justin would strike out in a blind panic when he was tackled while asleep.

Well, fuck, at the very least, Justin could do better than that.

He rolled over, got up, and padded across the room. Clay’s form was indistinct in the shadows. Justin reached his hand out to what he hoped was Clay’s shoulder and lightly tapped it. It was soaked through with sweat. 

_Gross._

“Hey, Clay. Clay, wake up.” 

Justin gently shook Clay's shoulder, but he did not awaken. Justin applied a touch more pressure and raised his voice.

“Clay. It’s just a dream. Come on, wake up.” 

A sharp inhale and Clay was rising up on his elbows.

“Justin?”

“Yeah.” Justin rocked back on his heels and stood to turn on the desk lamp. When the soft light diffused the room, Clay was there, blinking up at him, his hair damp with sweat, his breath hitching like he had just been running for his life. And hell, maybe he had. There had been no shortage of monsters this past year, and all of them came hunting in dreams.

Justin braced himself for Clay’s reaction. Expecting a fuck you. Or an embarrassed incoherent ramble. He got neither.

As if Justin were not even there, Clay swung his legs to the side of his bed and stood up. “Shit.” His hands touched his soaked t-shirt. “I’m going to go change my clothes.”

“Okay.” Justin watched as Clay walked to his dresser and pulled out fresh nightclothes. Then he was out of the room, entering the bathroom and turning on the shower.

Well, at least Justin knew what to do now. Half in a stupor, he stripped the soaked sheets off Clay’s bed and piled them in the hamper by the door. Then he tiptoed out of the room to the linen closet to get fresh sheets. It was still such a novelty to him, to have clean sheets always available. He hoped he would never take it for granted.

By the time he got the bed remade, admittedly a lot messier than it had been made before, Clay was shuffling back into their bedroom. He paused when he saw what Justin was doing. 

“Thanks, man. Sorry for waking you up.” 

Justin nodded, moving aside to let Clay sit down on the bed. He didn’t climb in between the sheets but sat up with his back against the headboard. It was clear that he was not going to go back to sleep right away, maybe not at all.

“You can turn the light off now,” Clay said.

Justin hesitated. 

“Scoot over,” he told Clay.

Clay looked up at him, eyes pinched. He was clearly too shaky to put up his usual protest and he shifted over, allowing Justin to sit down beside him. Clay’s body was tense, his face tight and closed. 

“Was it about Hannah?” Justin dared to ask.

Clay’s head rocked forward and then thudded back against the wall, as if he were trying to knock something out. His face when he looked at Justin was defiant and guarded.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Justin.” His voice was wrecked. 

“Didn’t say you had to.” Justin pulled his legs up into a vertical position and then leaned his head back, mirroring Clay’s position. He was careful not to look at Clay, not to make a big deal out of it. He knew that if he fucked this up, Clay would be complaining about it for the next two weeks. (Justin did not need any more stress in his life.)

But some things were worth the risk. And some things were clearer for him now than they had ever been. How different would it have been for Justin if, on just one of those lonely nights, his mother had sat beside him instead of telling him to grow the fuck up? If she had shared in his helplessness instead of adding more and more weight?

Clay was quiet; Justin barely even heard the sound of his breath. But, in his peripheral vision, he occasionally saw Clay's hand reaching up to his face, wiping away the wetness. Justin didn’t comment. 

He sat quietly, feeling Clay’s warmth at his side. No words. No platitudes. He knew better.

At some point (time had become a hazy concept), Clay’s head dropped onto Justin’s shoulder, exhaustion finally overtaking him. 

Justin closed his eyes. Things were still as fucked up as ever, but, in that moment, being fucked up didn’t seem quite as lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be doing the reverse scenario (Clay wakes up Justin after a nightmare) eventually. I did: Chapter 16
> 
> Prompts are welcome; they feed my muse. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Foundations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin gets a new bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set a few days after 2x13 (even though I make no reference to any of the cliffhangers in 2x13, oops)
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: Drug use allusions
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, **2** , 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Clay and Justin stood side by side as Mr. Jensen laid out the plan. It went like this: 1) They were first to remove the couch from Clay’s bedroom to the den. 2) They were to set up Justin’s new bed, provided it was delivered on time. 3) That would be in ten minutes, so they had better get a move on.

Justin crossed his arms and then uncrossed them. “I’m fine sleeping on the couch, Mr. Jensen. Really.” 

Clay screwed up his face. “No, dude. My couch is great, I know, but you need a bed.”

Mr. Jensen looked up from the toolbox he had placed on the floor. “It’s actually a requirement. When the social services worker comes for the home inspection, I think the bare minimum is that we provide you with a bed.”

“Okay.” Justin smiled reflexively. He was trying so hard to be easygoing with his new family, even when he felt unmoored.

“All right, first, we need to move this couch down to the den. Justin, you take the far end, and I’ll go backward down the stairs.”

Justin did as he was told. Mr. Jensen was soft-spoken but he still commanded respect. The task was soon accomplished. Justin found it amusing that for how little he actually helped, Clay found it necessary to provide a shit ton of criticism on their technique.

When they were back in Clay’s bedroom, Mr. Jensen surveyed them. “So, we have our three-man team. Justin, you good with tools?”

“Uh, I was okay at shop class?”

“Well, that already puts you ahead of Clay.”

“Dad!” Clay’s outrage lasted only a second before he shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I’ll read the instructions.”

“Good man.” 

Mr. Jensen lightly clapped Clay on the shoulder with a smile. Watching them, Justin felt out of place, in a way he never had around Bryce and his parents. At Bryce’s, he had always felt self-conscious in a roundabout way—his clothes, his manners, even the way he carried himself, it all clashed with everything the Walkers represented: poise, dignity, refinement. But, at the same time, there had also been a divide between Bryce and his parents as well. Mr. and Mrs. Walker had ignored Bryce as much as they had Justin. It was all the same to them—their cook, their son, their maid, their son’s white trash pet project.

But Clay and his father. . . They had such an easy camaraderie, moving around each other comfortably. There was teasing and playful touches. Exasperation and fondness. It confused Justin.

Is this what having a father was? It was foreign territory, and yet, the strangest thing was that Justin wasn’t excluded from it. Mr. Jensen talked to him no differently than he did Clay. He went above and beyond what was comfortable to make him feel included. 

Justin found himself responding eagerly. He hated that he did it. It was pathetic. It was a betrayal. 

_What would his mother think?_

_What did Clay think?_

The doorbell sounded. 

“Perfect timing!” Mr. Jensen rushed out of the room and down the stairs. Soon, two young men were carrying up a box, going back down and then returning with a mattress. One of the men paused when he saw Mr. Jensen’s tools littering the floor. He reached into his pocket for a sheet of paper that he then consulted, forehead scrunched.

“I have here that a Mrs. Lainie Jensen paid for delivery and assembly?”

Mr. Jensen looked taken aback. “Oh.”

Clay laughed. “Probably should have seen that one coming, Dad.” He looked at Justin. “Mom’s a big micromanager,” he explained.

Mr. Jensen recovered quickly, bouncing back toward the door. “Okay, well, boys, let’s leave the assembly to these two qualified gentlemen.”

They went downstairs and stood awkwardly.

Mr. Jensen looked from Justin to Clay.

“You boys want to watch a movie?”

 

* * *

 

As Justin lay in his new bed, hearing Clay’s soft breathing across the room, his hands began to shake. _Fuck._

He knew that things shouldn’t feel different just because he now had a bed. He had slept in this same spot, on Clay’s couch, for almost two weeks before juvie and for the last two days as well. But having a bed here that was _his_ alone, it made his situation no longer feel so transitory. No longer something to be pulled away from him at a moment’s notice.

He really needed some H. One more time, and then he would stop. He had to take the edge off.

Everything was feeling too stable. And when you were used to the ground constantly shifting, a sudden strong foundation was a very scary thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t mean to end this on such a downer. But I’m kind of wrecked by Justin in 2x13 saying that maybe he felt “happy” and then immediately coping with that positive feeling by shooting up heroin. 
> 
> The next one-shot will be much, much lighter in tone. I promise!
> 
> Prompts are always welcome.


	3. Difference of Squares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin is failing math and needs a tutor. Clay has tutoring experience... You see where this is going?
> 
> Thanks to the lovely PureForestGuardian for the prompt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set throughout the summer while Justin is in summer school.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, **3** , 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

When Lainie first received the note from Justin’s math teacher, she wasn’t surprised exactly. More like overwhelmed. It hadn’t been unexpected. Justin had missed most of the last semester at Liberty High, first homeless (and how her heart ached every time she was reminded of that fact), then in juvenile detention where lessons were designed for the lowest common denominator. There had been no attention to Justin's individual needs.

She stared down at the paper that Justin has abashedly handed her when he had arrived home from his summer classes. In red ink, the teacher had over-enthusiastically circled the following:

Algebra II

Justin Foley  


Exam 1: 59%  
Exam 2: --  
Exam 3: --  
Exam 4: --

Lainie knew that they needed a game plan. The whole point of summer school was to catch Justin up to his classmates. An exam grade like this was not a promising start. 

~~~

Saturday morning, Lainie entered the boys’ room with a stack of clean laundry. She found Clay sketching on his bed, lost in his own world. She separated Justin’s laundry from Clay’s, forming two neat piles, and then she sat down on the edge of Clay’s bed.

“Hey, honey.” 

He eyed her suspiciously. How was it that he always sensed when she had a plan up her sleeve? 

“Hi, Mom.”

“So, Clay,” she said, going for a neutral tone. “Justin is really struggling with his math class.”

Clay huffed. “I’m not surprised. You should get him a tutor.” 

Well, at least they were already on the same page. She tried to catch his eye. “I happen to know a really excellent tutor. Patient. Studious. Handsome.”

Clay’s head jerked spasmodically and his eyebrows arched in alarm. “No. No. No. I am not tutoring Justin!”

“And why not?”

“Isn’t that like a conflict of interest?”

“I’m not asking you to be his lawyer.”

Clay put his sketchbook aside. She almost laughed at his indignant expression, but she quickly sobered at his next words.

“Mom, you know I stopped tutoring after Jeff–“ His voice broke off. His fists curled defensively. 

All Lainie wanted to do was to wrap her son up in her arms and kiss away all his sorrows. If only it were that easy. The days when that was an answer were long since past. She settled for resting her hand on his leg, her thumb stroking rhythmic little circles against the rough fabric. 

Clay had always given so much of himself to helping others and had always seemed to genuinely enjoy it. He had taken tutoring as a challenge and, when his students succeeded, as a point of pride. She hated that that was now tainted. She hated that she had not considered how tutoring could open up those wounds.

“Oh, honey. I didn’t even think. Do you want to talk about it?” she questioned gently.

Clay shook his head. “No, Mom, it’s okay. I should probably not use that as an excuse.” The right side of his mouth turned up in a half smile. “I was a pretty awesome tutor.” 

“Yes, you were.” 

Lainie took this as an invitation to push a little. Sometimes healing came in small steps, sometimes in big leaps, but it had to start with a willingness to move. Perhaps this opportunity could help Clay as much as Justin.

“Honey, Justin could really use your help. It’d be completely casual, here at home, no oversight. And, you know, there would be a financial incentive for this tutor.”

Clay’s face lightened a fraction and he sat up with interest. “How much of an incentive?”

~~~

They decided to set 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. as the tutoring time with a session every evening (Saturday would be the free day). Each evening, Lainie would settle herself on the couch to work on her court briefs while the two boys took over the kitchen table, papers and books and snacks strewn across it. She tried to make it clear to them that she was not supervising them; she was just there to make sure things stayed on track. It wasn’t needed. Clay took his tutoring very seriously, as she had suspected he would.

The start was, not unexpectedly, rough. Justin was resistant and Clay was querulous, but, as the routine became settled, Lainie was happy to hear the sounds of progress. She also was treated to no small bit of private amusement at their antics. 

~~~

“Justin, get the pencil out of your mouth and focus.”

“It helps me concentrate!”

“You are literally chewing on cedar and graphite! That’s gross, man. C’mon.”

~~~

“What is the coefficient?”

“Y?”

“Y is a variable.”

“Okay, X?”

“Also a variable.”

~~~

“Justin, you can’t just make up your own rules. This is math, not creative writing!”

“You just made up imaginary numbers when you couldn’t figure out the solution!”

“I did not _make_ them up, Justin. Imaginary numbers are a real thing. Mathematically.”

“Seems fake to me.”

“Well, it’s not. Write it down.”

~~~

“Geez, Justin, how’d you even make it into Algebra II? I know you had to keep your grades up to play basketball last year... Oh my God, you cheated, didn’t you?”

“Not all the time. Montgomery would–”

“Okay, stop. Don’t. Not another word.”

~~~

“Justin, why did you add 32 and 14?”

“Because there’s a plus sign? Dumbass.”

“Yes. But. Order of operations.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to multiply before you add. Well, unless there are parentheses.”

“Why?”

“Seriously?! Wait. Okay, wait, I think I found the root issue. It’s like you skipped elementary math and went right into intermediate algebra.”

“Okay...?”

“Which means we need to put the actual math aside and focus on definitions and rudimentary principles. If you don’t know the basics, it doesn’t matter how well you grasp the more advanced stuff, you’re still going to get the answer wrong. This is fantastic; I can work with this. Okay, get a new sheet of paper.”

~~~~

“What is the coefficient?”

“3?”

“Yes, exactly. Finally.”

~~~

“No, stop, stop. That’s wrong. Erase that.”

“Fuck, Clay, I’m never going to get this.”

“Yes, you are. Erase that, and I’ll walk you through this one.”

~~~

“If I get this one right, we are taking a break.”

“Well, given that you only got 1 out of the last 3 correct, I am very doubtful about your chances.”

~~~

“And the answer is?”

“2 +3i?”

“Good!”

~~~

“X equals 4.” 

“No.”

“No? C’mon, Clay.”

“It’s ±4. The square root can be positive or negative!”

“But I still got it right!”

“No, Justin, you won’t get full credit for putting down 4. You have to put the positive or negative sign too.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t get that pouty face.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Grr, okay, let’s take a 10-minute break. I’m starving anyway.”

~~~

In no time at all, the day arrived for Justin’s second math exam. Clay went to pick Justin up at the end of the day. Waiting for them to return, Lainie paced. She didn't know why she was so nervous. Matt shook his head at her as he chopped up vegetables for the stir-fry.

“Lainie, it’ll be what it’ll be.” Matt’s remonstrations were quite hollow, Lainie thought. She could tell he was just as anxious as she was, judging by how finely he had diced the carrots. This was a stir-fry, not a soup.

When she heard the front door opening, she grabbed a zucchini and started to wash it, for the second time.

“Hey, kids, how’d it go?” Matt asked casually as the boys entered.

“Terrible!” Clay replied first, throwing up his hands. 

Lainie’s heart fell. They had worked so hard. She turned towards Justin, prepared to reassure him. There were still two more exams to go. He still had time to catch up.

Justin, however, shoved Clay playfully. “Terrible?! It went awesome, Mrs. Jensen. I got a B!”

Clay wasted no time in adding his two cents. “81% is not a B, Justin, It’s a B minus. And you got all three quadratic equation questions wrong. We worked on those for over a half hour last night!”

“I know, I know. I got nervous.”

“I even taught you a song!”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s why I forgot it. All I could remember was your annoying voice.”

“Whatever. Next time, I’m making you sing it then.”

“No fucking chance.”

~~~

It was late, and Justin was helping Lainie dry the dishes. He seemed relaxed, but he was very quiet. Although he had been with them for several months now, it was still hard for her to read his moods. And, if she admitted it to herself, it wasn’t just Justin. The past year had demonstrated that even with Clay, appearances could be deceiving. There could be tranquility under a troubled face. There could be hurt under a calm veneer. 

She hoped that Justin had not taken Clay’s criticism earlier to heart. Best make sure. “You know, Justin, a B is a real achievement. You should be very happy with your score. That’s a huge turn-around.”

Justin ducked his head and smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Jensen.” 

She reached out her hand for the towel, which he handed to her. “Here, I’ll hand you glasses, and you put them away.” They switched places and Justin began carefully placing the cups into the cabinet as she handed them to him.

“Actually,” Justin began in a low voice. “It’s weird, but I mostly get what Clay’s talking about now. Like the way he explains things, it makes sense? Before everything sounded like, I don’t know, Latin or something. But he breaks it down so that you do it one step at a time. He’s a lot better than Mrs. Jefferson.“ He gave her a sly look. “Don’t tell Clay I said that.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

~~~  


  
Algebra II

Justin Foley

Exam 1: 59%  
Exam 2: 81%  
Exam 3: 86%  
Exam 4: ---

~~~

Lainie passed the okra to Clay, who pretended to place some on his plate (did he really think she wouldn't notice?) before passing it on to Justin, who piled a generous portion on his. That boy would eat anything, Lainie thought fondly.

“Big final tomorrow, Justin,” Matt said. “You ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Lainie looked at Clay. “Clay, is he ready?”

Clay shrugged dramatically. “I’ve done my very best.”

~~~

“I’m a miracle worker!” Clay announced as he came through the kitchen door, Justin following in his wake.

“I’m the one who took the test, Clay.” Justin’s protest was just for show, she could tell. He looked self-satisfied and confident. It was a good look on him.

Clay held up Justin’s final exam. 

93%.

Matt whooped. He slung his arm around Clay. Lainie could not help giving a little jump herself before she hugged Justin. 

“Congratulations.” She brought her hand up to his hair and squeezed him tightly.

“Thanks.” 

She released him, pleased to see that, for once, he was not embarrassed by her display of affection.

“This is going on the fridge,” Clay announced, searching out a magnet and placing it front and center. Justin moved forward, prepared to rip it down, before Matt distracted him with a question.

“So, what does that brings your final average up to?”

“79.75%. But Mrs. Jefferson told me she was going to round it up to 80%.”

“That’s a solid B,” Clay affirmed proudly.

Justin shot him a disgusted look. “What happened to your whole a ‘B minus is not a B' freak-out?"

“It’s different when it’s the final grade.”

“How is that any fucking different?”

As the boys argued, Lainie walked to the refrigerator and gazed at the test. She knew that Clay was just making fun by hanging it up that way, like you would a child’s kindergarten stick figure drawing. But, for her, looking at it hanging there, the product of both her boys' hard work—an accomplishment neither could have reached alone—it made her throat close up with a heavy emotion. Sentimentality. She’d better tone it down. She doubted anyone would appreciate it. 

She turned back to her family. “Let’s go out to celebrate. What do you boys want?”

They both responded at once.

“Pizza.”

“Sushi.”

Matt embraced her, the boys continuing to bicker in the background. “How about two nights of celebration?" he suggested. "Pizza tonight. Sushi tomorrow.”

Yes, that sounded nice. Two nights. There was plenty to celebrate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretend that any math I put in this chapter is valid [I have successfully blocked out most math knowledge from my brain].
> 
> Thanks for reading! You all make me smile so much, :)


	4. Reactions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin’s getting adopted. Various people react to the news.
> 
> Thanks to Squall95 for the idea!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Various times during and after 2x13
> 
> Pairings: Clay/Sheri, Justin/Alex (both can be seen as platonic, if you squint!)
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: Drug use, sexist language, Bryce Walker
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: **4** , 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Zach**

They were walking down the hallway at Liberty High when Justin told Zach the news.

Zach enthusiastically slapped him on the back. “So, can I call you Jensen now?” 

Justin laughed. “Dude, I’m not changing my name.” 

“Isn't that what adoption means...?”

“You don’t have to change your name when you’re adopted. The Jensens offered but it doesn't... feel right.” _I'm not good enough to carry that name._

“Oh. Okay.” Zach clapped him on the back again and gave him a fist bump. “I can’t believe that you’ll be living with Clay. Clay Jensen. Man, he’s–“

Justin automatically found himself ready to jump in with something profane, something insulting. _“Clay, yeah, man, he’s a fucking nerd.” “Jensen’s a total pussy, I know.”_

It was instinctual. It was the way he used to talk to Bryce, to Monty, to all of Bryce’s boys. It was a way of deflecting, to keep negative attention pointed outward. They had all done it. But that shitty locker room talk wasn’t truth. It was cowardice. And Clay was worth more than that. It was important that Zach understood.

“Jensen–, I mean, Clay... He’s–, he’s a good person, Dempsey.” He knew that he sounded defensive. There was no need to be. “I mean, he actually cares and shit. And he’s really funny. Sometimes without trying to be. Plus, he’s dealt with a lot of crap, but he’s still, I don’t know, kind.”

“Yeah, I know, dude.” Zach’s smile was genuine. “Clay’s cool. And he’s got balls.”

Justin stopped walking, surprised at Zach’s reaction. It wasn’t what he expected, but that expectation was Justin's issue, not Zach’s. He needed to stop expecting cruelty. Expecting it would ensure that it would be found.

A disgruntled freshman jostled him from behind. Zach pushed Justin aside, out of the flow of traffic. They leaned against the lockers.

Zach looked abashed. “I guess we should have noticed before. Who Clay was. Who Bryce was.” 

When it came down to it, for both of them, there were so many regrets.

“Yeah.” What else could Justin say?

Zach shook off the tension and smiled warmly. “Look, man, I’m happy for you. You deserve a break. You deserve a family, a _real_ one. And having a younger sibling is great, man.”

“Actually, Clay’s older,” Justin countered.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

* * *

**  
Sheri**

Sheri slid into the chair next to his. “I heard about Justin,” she said, propping her chin on her hands. “You really commit and follow through, don’t you, Clay?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, it's like you smuggled him into your bedroom, secretly detoxed him, and made him presentable all so you could hand him off to your parents for adoption.”

Clay snorted. “Well, it didn’t happen exactly that way. Although, come to think of it, I do have a pattern of doing things like that.”

“What do you mean?” Sheri’s tone was so inviting. As were her eyes. Sheri had really beautiful eyes. And eyelashes. And lips.

_Focus, Clay._

“Well,” he explained, “When I was eight, I found a kitten out on our street. I hid it in my room for a week. I collected sand from the park and used my Lego case as a litter box. I even hand designed a collar for it. It was great... until my parents found out.”

“Aww.” Sheri smiled. “Did they let you keep it?”

“Well, it turns out that it was actually my neighbor’s cat, and I had kidnapped it. So I had to give it back. My neighbor still gives me the side eye every time she sees me near her garden, come to think of it.”

“That’s funny.” Sheri’s laugh was so warm, it made Clay feel lighter just to hear it.

“Yeah. So, I didn't get a kitten. But I get a brother, apparently.”

“I think it’s really sweet, Clay, that your family is taking in Justin. I know he’s troubled as hell, but underneath, I think he’s really just soft. Kind of pathetic, maybe, but vulnerable. In a good way.”

Clay couldn’t help but splutter. “Is it some kind of law that all girls have to get mushy over Justin Foley?”

“Well, it seems to me it’s not _just_ us girls, Clay.” She gave him a meaningful look.

“Yeah, maybe.” God help him if he didn’t find himself being protective of their family’s newest member, maybe more so than his parents. How had that happened? If he thought about it too closely, it would give him an existential crisis. He knocked his hand against his desk.

Sheri reached into her bag and took out a package of gum, which she offered to Clay. “Want one?”

“Yeah, thanks.” He took a stick, trying not to fumble and drop it.

“And hey,” Sheri said, “If you ever need help, I could climb up to your window again. Anytime.”

Clay tried to keep his cool. “Yeah, sure, definitely. You don’t have to use the window though. My parents would love to see you at the front door. I mean–, I would, too. If you wanted.” He looked away awkwardly.

“Yeah, I would want to.” Sheri seemed pleased, or at least Clay hoped that was what it was in her voice.

He smiled at her. “Okay, great.”

It was very hard to concentrate for the rest of the class.

* * *

**  
Amber Foley**

“Hey, Am. Am?”

Someone was shaking her.

“What?” Amber tried to bring the face before her into focus. It remained a pink blob with nice, blurred edges. It was probably Ashley. Hopefully, she had brought some fresh supplies.

“Did you bring me some needles?” she asked.

“No, girl, I just saw Seth!”

Oh, fuck. Amber tried to get up. She had to run. He would kill her. But she couldn’t even get to her knees.

Ashley (if it was indeed Ashley) patted her gently. “Hey, chill, girl. I didn’t tell him where you are. I didn’t, Amber, I swear.” 

There was a long pause before Ashely continued. “He’s fucking pissed though. The police are looking for you.”

Amber settled back against the wall. Her grimy hair tasted salty where it had fallen into her open mouth. She didn’t even have the energy to pull it out. “Why?” she croaked.

“Something about your boy. Apparently, some rich couple is trying to adopt him or something.”

Amber found it hard to concentrate. It didn’t seem important. “Whatever.” Her hand groped along the carpet, searching. “Hey, hand me my needle.”

* * *

**  
Alex**

Justin set his backpack down on Alex’s bed. “Thanks for helping me out.”

Alex ran his hand through his hair and looked at him uncertainly from his desk chair. “You know that I only started back to school like a week before you, right? And I don’t really take notes because my hand cramps up. So, I won’t be much help probably.”

Justin unzipped his backpack and tossed the bags of chips and chocolate he had smuggled over as payment for Alex’s help. He collapsed backward next to the contraband and turned his head to stare at Alex.

“That’s okay,” he told him. “There’s no way I’m going to pass history anyway. I missed way too much.” It would be another class that he would have to add to his summer load.

Alex struggled up from the chair. Justin made no move to help him. He knew Alex hated that. Instead, he swept all the food to the side to make room for Alex to sit beside him. The bed creaked as Alex levered himself down. Alex grabbed a bag of chips and settled back.

“Why’d you come then?”

Justin hesitated. “I kind of wanted an excuse to get away from hom–, from the Jensen’s house,” he amended. It was still too new to call their house his home, even though it was the most comfortable place he had ever stayed. 

Perhaps that was why he wanted to get away. Mr. and Mrs. Jensen were showering him with gifts – a bed, new clothes (over and above what they had already given him), deodorant, a toothbrush, school supplies, a laptop computer... He wasn’t used to things coming without strings attached. He wasn’t used to having a full fridge and pantry that were his to raid whenever he liked.

“Yeah, isn’t that weird?” Alex asked. “Staying there? I mean, a year ago, you were threatening to kill Clay. Do his parents know–?

“That I suggested we murder their son? No, obviously not, Alex.” Justin sighed and plucked the bag of Doritos out of Alex’s hand. He pulled the seam apart and handed it back. This time, Alex didn’t protest the help. 

“Right. Weird, though?”

“Yes.”

Alex dug into the chips, eating three in quick succession. He gave a happy little moan. Justin laughed. He could relate to the pleasures food could bring.

“Did you bring any soda?” Alex asked him.

“Oh, yeah.” Justin reached into his bag. “I brought Pepsi, Coke, and Sprite. What do you want?”

“Pepsi,” Alex said.

Justin popped the tab and handed it over.

“Thanks. Seriously, you have no idea the crap my mom is forcing me to eat.”

 _It’s better than having a mom who doesn’t care if you eat at all_. 

“I guess it could be good for you,” Alex commented. “Living with Clay. I know my memory is all fucked, but I definitely remember who you were around Bryce. You were a real dick, man.”

Justin raised his eyebrows. “I think most people would say I still am.”

Alex shook his head. “Yeah, you are, but it’s different. You and Clay, you’re good together.”

“If I don’t fuck it up.”

“Probably an unrealistic goal for you.” Alex was straight-faced, his voice deadpan.

“Fuck off.” He grabbed Alex’s Doritos playfully, holding them out of reach. Alex shot him such a pitiful look that he tossed them back almost immediately.

He felt a sudden urge to lay it all out in front of Alex, to speak his truth. He felt that Alex would understand. “When I’m around them, Clay and his parents, I want to be better. To not let them down. To be worthy of what they’re investing in me.”

Alex sat his chips aside and leaned toward him. “Good.” He paused. “You know, I think my dad would have let you stay here if it hadn’t worked out with the Jensens.”

“Your dad is awesome.” 

Alex scrunched his face. “He’s all right.”

“Whatever, man.” Justin reached for the bag of M&M’s that he had brought and ripped it open. He offered some to Alex first, who shook his head, so Justin helped himself to a handful. 

“Would it have been weird if I stayed here?” Justin asked, immensely satisfied with the way the soft chocolate squished between his teeth.

“Yeah.” Alex’s cheeks colored. 

Justin looked at him in shock. Was he _blushing?_

“Why, Standall? You got a crush or something?” 

“Fuck, no. It’d just be weird!” Alex smiled at him. “I’ll let Clay deal with you.”

Justin smiled back. He was so fucking happy that he was able to do this, to look at his friend, to talk to him. It had been a miracle that he had survived at all. Justin remembered the acrid fear he had felt when Clay had told him what had happened to Alex in November. That same fear had returned tenfold when Clay had pointed the gun at his own temple in front of Bryce’s house. 

The chocolate in Justin’s mouth suddenly tasted like chalk.

Clay had done so much for Justin, but God, if only people knew how much Clay needed someone in return.

* * *

**  
Bryce**

Clay was reaching for his French textbook when the locker door suddenly swung inward. Clay, on reflex, pulled his hand back, but the door still gouged his knuckles as it slammed closed.

“What the fuck!” Clay shook his hand, the pain shooting up his wrist to his arm. He glared up at the perpetrator. Bryce Walker leaned against the wall of lockers, casual and smug. How the fuck did his transfer not go through yet, when he had gotten out of jail in less time than it took most people to take a piss?

“So, Jensen, what’s this I hear about you adopting Justin?”

_Don’t engage. Don’t engage._

Clay tried to back away, but he was jostled forward, closer to Bryce. Fuck. No doubt Bryce’s cronies were here to ensure Clay did not escape.

“What, you’re just going to ignore me?” Bryce wheedled.

“Well, seeing how it really doesn’t concern you, yeah I am.” He tried to shift sideways, but Bryce’s hand shot out to grip his upper arm tightly.

“See, it’s interesting you say that, because I think it’s all about me.”

Clay stared at the ground, refusing to give Bryce the satisfaction of a response.

“Tell me if I get any of this wrong,” Bryce continued. “I got to be with Hannah, multiple times, while you were stuck pining after her like a kicked puppy for a year. And well, shit, you can’t tap that now, that ship has sailed. So you turn to my other discarded scraps. I mean, Justin?” Bryce laughed dryly. “Taking him in after I threw him out? Making him your brother? It’s kind of obvious what you’re doing.”

Clay’s face burned. His stomach tightened. The adrenaline flooding his system made standing still a herculean effort. He met Bryce’s gaze, fire facing stone. “You weren’t ever with Hannah! You fucking raped her! And Justin’s not some piece of trash! So fuck off, Bryce.” He slammed his body forward at Bryce, but the grip of hands from behind pulled him back before he even made contact.

Bryce shushed him, as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Hey, calm down, buddy. It’s okay.” He put his arm around Clay’s shoulders, pulling him in. “You can have Justin. He’s very needy, you know. A lot of maintenance required or he gets mouthy. Not really worth the trouble.”

Bryce’s warm breath was against his cheek, his thumb uncomfortably squeezing the pressure points of Clay’s neck. Clay felt queasy. 

“You know what,” Bryce murmured. “I’m feeling charitable, so I’ll give you a tip. Free of charge. With Justy, if he gets out of line, all you have to do is hint that you’ll send him back to his whore of a mother and he’ll drop to his knees like a little bitch to please you.” 

Clay’s vision went red. Without thinking, he ducked down and then jammed his left elbow upward with all the force he could muster. There was a snap and Bryce cried out in pain, releasing Clay. 

The satisfaction only lasted a second. _Well, I’m done for_ , Clay realized. _They’ll finish me off now._

__But, in the next moment, his freshman math teacher was running forward. “Clay Jensen! The Principal’s office. Right now!”_ _

__The bodies behind him were moving off. _Cowards._ Clay looked at Bryce. Blood was gushing from his nose, his back hunched against the lockers. There was rage in his eyes as the blood dripped into his open mouth, staining his teeth like the predator that he was. _ _

__Clay smiled at him, uncowed. His knuckles stung and smarted, his t-shirt was now spattered with Bryce’s blood, and a detention was no doubt in his near future. Somehow, none of that mattered. Bryce, in his overeager attempt to appear indifferent, had shown his hand to Clay._ _

It was Justin who had left Bryce out with the refuse, with the dirt. And it was Bryce who had been hurt most deeply by the separation. Bryce was _jealous_ of Clay—jealous that Justin would call him "brother." 

__Clay would take it as a victory. There weren’t many to be found these days._ _

____

* * *

**  
Tony**

Clay watched as Mrs. Baker walked out of Monet’s. Long after she had disappeared from view, he remained, staring at nothing.

He felt a hand touch his shoulder tentatively. He turned, not surprised to see Tony standing there. He was a touchstone, always ready to support Clay’s weight, to help shore him up. But, right then, Clay felt surprisingly steady. 

“How you doing, Clay?”

“Honestly? I feel okay. Is that weird?”

Tony shook his head. “Nah, it’ll probably hit you later. And when it does, call me.” He squeezed gently and then removed his hand from Clay’s shoulder.

“I will.” He brought his own hand up to touch on Tony’s back, touch and then away, hoping that the simple gesture would communicate the depth of what he owed his friend, what he could not communicate in words alone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Justin, who was still stretched out on the couch, now with his arm over his face. 

Clay should probably talk to his mom about leaving soon. Justin was probably exhausted. Speaking of Justin–

“So, want to hear something crazy?” Clay asked Tony.

“Sure?”

“My parents are adopting Justin.”

Clay felt vindicated by the mental gymnastics that played out across Tony’s face. _See, Mom and Dad, I’m not the only one who finds this development a bit like getting thrown into a riptide._

“Are you punking me?” Tony finally managed.

Clay quirked his lips. “Do you really think I would do that today of all days?”

Tony took a minute to process the news. “Wow. Shit.”

“Yeah.” Clay shifted his feet, his shoulders rounding inward.

“This is not going to be good,” Tony announced, blunt as ever.

It felt as if the floor buckled under Clay’s feet. He valued Tony’s opinion above and beyond most anyone else’s. If he thought it was a bad idea, it didn’t help the uncertainty Clay himself still harbored towards the adoption. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Tony.” 

“No, I meant for me.” Tony’s face was serious as he gazed up at Clay. “It’ll be great for Justin, and you’ll get used to it. But me, _I’m_ the one who’s going to have to listen to you complain non-stop about him. And, I’m going to be the one who has to bail you out of all the nonsense you two will inevitably get caught up in.”

Clay spluttered. “I do not complain! And Justin’s the one who does the fucked up things.”

“Really?! Do I have to remind you of any one of the dozen knuckleheaded things you’ve done in the last year?”

Okay, that was an exaggeration. Clearly. But Clay couldn’t find it in him to defend his honor. Instead, he exhaled with relief. Knowing that Tony’s objections were self-centered, that they didn’t question the fundamental nature of the idea, it comforted Clay more than it should. He glanced again at the couch, where Justin appeared to have fallen asleep. Well, he guessed they weren’t in any hurry to leave now. 

He turned his gaze back to Tony, who was watching him with an amused expression. 

“And there’s another thing,” Tony said. “Somehow, I’ve got the feeling that if Justin does something stupid, you’ll be following him right in. And vice versa. Which means I’ll have to get involved. Against my better sense, I’ll add.”

“And why’s that?” Clay pressed.

“Why do you think, dummy? Because you’re my brother too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of little notes:
> 
> • I didn’t include Jessica’s reaction since that is in the show’s canon.
> 
> • Justin Jensen/Foley – I imagine Justin being reluctant, initially, to change his last name. He changes his mind later (see: chapter 20). :)
> 
> • Justin’s age – I always thought Justin was older than Clay but it’s April in 2x13 when Clay says that Justin “won’t turn 18 for almost a year” which implies Justin’s birthday is perhaps sometime early in the year (January – March perhaps –which means he turned 17 while being homeless, hold me, I’m crying.). And in season 1, around Halloween, Lainie Jensen specifically calls Clay 17 years old, which means Clay’s birthday is, at the latest, in October. Which makes Clay older by at least a few months. If anyone knows any information in the show that contradicts these scenes, let me know. 
> 
> • Thanks for reading!


	5. If You Were Lost At Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay is feeling low. Justin plans a road trip to cheer him up.
> 
> This chapter inspired by the sublime xDaydreamerx. Thank you!!
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, **5** , 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Some random Saturday in the summer post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: Depression

It was 9 a.m. Saturday morning, and Clay could hear Justin stirring from the neighboring bed. He should get up too. He should. But he didn’t.

It was 10 a.m. There was no reason to stay in bed. Clay wasn’t sleepy, but getting up seemed like too much effort. The bedroom door creaked open and closed as Justin came and went. Sometimes he stopped and appraised Clay. He did not say anything, but his face did all the questioning: ‘What the fuck, are you asleep or awake?’

11 a.m. His father poked his head in the door and asked if he wanted breakfast. Clay grunted, which his father correctly interrupted as a refusal. Ten minutes later, Justin was back, texting furiously on his phone.

He stared at Clay. “Clay, you shouldn’t mope in your bed all day.” 

“Shut up, Justin.”

 _I think I've earned the right to mope._ There were plenty of reasons to do so. Hannah. The trial. Tyler. The dance. No particular one was weighing him down, but the collective burden just seemed too heavy to face today. 

“Clay.” Justin bounced down on Clay’s bed, poking him in the side. “Last time I was lying in bed, you made me get up and watch all three Star Wars movies with you.”

Justin’s ignorance grated and made Clay perk up a little. “There are more than three movies, Justin. I am pretty sure I explained that to you, in detail, which means you’re trying to annoy me into getting up.” 

Justin gave him a mock hurt expression. 

_Yeah, you don’t fool me._ Clay pulled his blanket up around his neck.

While it was indeed true that he had cajoled Justin into a movie marathon the previous week, it had only been because he had entered their bedroom to find Justin lying prone on his bed, his fingers twitching with nervous energy. He had been afraid that Justin was jonesing for a fix, and since he had been meaning to begin Justin’s Star Wars education anyway, the idea had made sense at the time. 

Justin poked him again, this time in the leg, with more force than was necessary. “I don't have school. You don't have work. I asked your parents, and they said it was okay.”

“They said what was okay?”

“If we take the Prius and go for a drive.”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t you listen? For a drive. So, get the fuck up.”

Realizing that Justin would not leave him in peace if he didn’t capitulate, Clay pushed the boy off his bed, and then rolled himself off, and headed to the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

It was 30 minutes later. Clay pressed his head against the glass of the passenger side window. He shouldn’t have expected a logical plan of action from Justin, but this was ridiculous, bordering on concerning. He seemed to be driving aimlessly, turning off on random streets and into cul-de-sacs of identical cardboard cutout houses with well-manicured lawns.

“Justin, I think you’re lost.”

“I’m not lost,” Justin replied haughtily.

“Oh yeah? I specifically remember seeing that tree five minutes ago.”

Justin laughed. “That _tree_? Jesus, Clay, how much of a nerd can you be?”

“Noticing nature makes me a nerd? Real low bar you’ve set there. And why do you keep looking at the clock?”

“No reason.” 

Clay rolled down his window, trying to block out Justin’s evasive answer, and the irritation it evoked, with a purposeful action. The rush of warm, fresh air into the stuffy car was invigorating.

“Justin, you freak me out when you get all mysterious and secretive like this. Where are we going?” He was proud of his level, controlled tone. He really didn’t want to sound angry. He knew that Justin had good intentions, even if his behavior was baffling.

Justin finally relented. “We're not going anywhere. We're just driving.”

“Why?”

Justin didn’t answer. He veered off the road and pulled into a convenience store parking lot. He jumped out of the car. “I’m going to go get snacks. Want to come?” 

“No, help yourself.” While he waited, Clay connected his phone’s music library to the Prius’ navigation system and started a playlist: ‘Star Wars: The Complete Film Score’. It would no doubt irritate Justin.

_Serves him right._

Justin returned with drinks and a large bag of Tootsie Rolls, which he tossed into Clay’s lap. Clay immediately softened.

“Dude, I love these!”

“I know.” Justin glanced at him tentatively. “Is this okay?” He now looked unsure, his eyes softly questioning.

“What? Driving around town like we’re Sisyphus on the mountain and the Prius is our rock?”

Justin stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

“Never mind, dude. Yes, this is fine. I give up. Carry on.”

Justin laughed and hit him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay. Good.” He pulled out of the parking lot and back onto the road, not before shooting Clay a pained grimace. “What the fuck is this music?”

 

* * *

 

Between the Tootsie Rolls and the soft drinks and the warm breeze drifting in through the open windows, Clay had to admit that this wayward trip was actually turning out to be quite enjoyable. Justin was a good driver, and he didn’t try to force a conversation. The silence was amiable, and Clay welcomed the opportunity to just let his mind shut off and take in the scenery. 

Justin’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. He did not pick it up, but Clay noticed that Justin now drove with more purpose than he had before. He soon found out why as they pulled up at Tony’s house.

Tony was standing in the driveway, leaning against his Mustang. It was up on blocks, out of commission for the foreseeable future. 

“What up, losers,” Tony called. 

Clay tried not to sound too eager as he leaned out of the window at his friend. “I thought you were hanging out with your brothers today?”

“Yeah, I was,” Tony replied. “But we're done now. Justin texted me and said you wanted to go for a drive?”

“ _I wanted?_ ” He shot a bemused glance Justin’s way. Justin nodded his head vigorously.

Clay didn’t even care. He turned back to Tony. “Yeah, I did. If you want to–?”

“Definitely. But I'm driving.” Tony pointed at Justin as he walked around to the driver’s side. “You, backseat.”

“Seriously?” Justin protested.

“Yeah, seriously.” 

Justin climbed into the back from between the front seats, almost kicking Clay in the face in the process.

“Jesus, Justin.”

Tony got into the car and adjusted the seat. When he was settled, Clay held up the bag of Tootsie Rolls. “Want some?”

“Is that a serious question?” Tony stared him down.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Tony shook his head disapprovingly. “No, I do not want any of that crap.” 

Clay shrugged and tossed a piece back to Justin, who enthusiastically starting unrolling it. Well, if nothing else, Justin at least had an appreciation for fine cuisine.

Tony quickly got them back on the road. He had a no-holds-barred approach to driving, so much different than Justin’s suave, controlled operation. They were both nice approaches, Clay thought.

“Where to, papi?” Tony asked him once they reached the highway.

Clay waved his hand vaguely. “Well, according to Justin, the journey isn't the destination.”

“I did not say that,” Justin indignantly piped up from the backseat.

“I was paraphrasing,” Clay said.

Tony ignored them. Instead he tried, and failed, to tap a beat on the steering wheel. "What in fuck’s sake are we listening to?”

Justin made a self-satisfied assent from the backseat.

Clay scowled. "You both need to expand your musical horizons."

Tony sighed in fond exasperation, but he didn't protest. “Let's just drive.”

And so they did, an impromptu expedition to nowhere. The afternoon stretched out before them—the food good, the views pleasant, and the company second to none.

Clay, thinking back, found it hard now to recall how he had felt that morning. That sense of wading through an ocean of black treacle, iron shackles around his ankles... It was so far from his current buoyant lightness. The darkness wasn’t gone, Clay knew. He had merely postponed it for another day. But, looking at his best friend at the wheel and his foster brother in the rearview mirror, it was not as intimidating a prospect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • PSA: Depression is a serious illness and shouldn’t be ignored. Mental health professionals can help.
> 
> • In case it wasn’t clear, Justin was texting Tony in the beginning and was later checking the clock for the planned rendezvous time. Justin totally knows that hanging out with Tony will cheer up his bro (and also he just invited himself along, as one does).


	6. Solidarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin gets grounded for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: A Friday evening in early summer, post 2x13
> 
> Pairings: Justin/Jessica (mentioned)
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, **6** , 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Clay felt the tension as soon as he arrived home from his shift at the Crestmont. He locked the door behind him as quietly as he could, straining to make out any individual words from the discussion he heard emanating from the living room. The angry, sharp tones of his mother and the overwhelming ooze of disappointment from his father were very familiar to him. He knew what that usually meant. His parents were not happy.

Oh, shit. What had he done?

He racked his brain. The only thing he could think of was that, in his rush to leave earlier that afternoon, he had not put his dishes in the sink. He tried to imagine a scenario in which that slip-up would lead to the taut exchange he could hear now. Even for his parents, that seemed extreme.

Well, he wasn’t in a rush to find out. He should just try to slip up the stairs unnoticed. Maybe Justin would know.

 _Wait._

How could he forget? He was so used to his parents' negative attention being reserved for him and him alone. But he was no longer the only teenager in the house. 

What had _Justin_ done? 

Clay felt a little thrill of excitement pass through him. The opportunity to be a spectator rather than the star player of his parents’ inquisition—this was a novelty. Clay was going to savor it. 

He lingered in the entryway, listening to the rising and falling waves of chastisement. The words were muffled, and the few phrases Clay did manage to pick out were not very enlightening. Without the context, it was impossible for Clay to put together exactly what Justin had done. 

Occasionally, he heard Justin's voice, low and respectful, but his mother dominated the conversation. She did love to have the floor of the court.

A short while later, there was a prolonged moment of silence. Clay ducked around the corner. A minute later, he heard Justin begin trudging up the stairs. 

Clay waited a respectful three minutes before bounding up the stairs after him. When he entered their bedroom, he found Justin sitting burrowed in his blankets, looking thoroughly scolded. Clay approved.

“What’s up?” Clay tried to sound nonchalant. It didn’t seem proper sibling etiquette to outwardly let his elation show.

“Your parents grounded me.” Justin didn’t sound outraged, which disappointed Clay somewhat. He sounded pitiful. And he looked pathetic wrapped up like a burrito. He was really taking the fun out of this.

“What did you do?”

“I was 19 minutes late for my curfew."

Clay tossed his Crestmont uniform on the dresser in disgust. “Fuck, Justin! How could you be so stupid?”

“It was 19 minutes, Clay!”

Clay tried to control his temper. He really did. But Justin was such an idiot sometimes, and he really didn't deserve any coddling this time. “Your curfew is a condition of your probation. What if your probation officer happened to stop by tonight? What the fuck was so important that you would risk that?”

Justin looked sheepish. “I was with Jess.”

“Oh my God, Justin, if you’re going to say that you were late because you were having sex–“

“We weren’t! Jess was having a really crap day, okay? And she wanted to cuddle—that’s it, just cuddle—and she fell asleep, and I couldn’t leave her.”

“Oh my God.” Would Justin ever make a rational, mature decision when it came to Jessica? “I think she would understand why you had to leave.”

“I know,” Justin conceded. “But I’ve let her down so many times.”

Clay went to his dresser and pulled out a sleep shirt from the top drawer. “There is such a thing as a phone, you know? Texting, Skype, Snapchat, all good options.”

Justin sniffed. “It's not the same.”

Clay slammed the dresser drawer with more force than was necessary. “I think it’s probably better than being in juvie and not seeing her at all.” _Or not seeing her ever._ What Clay wouldn’t do to have one more text with Hannah, one more phone call...

He changed his shirt, then stripped off his jeans. When he was dressed for bed, he turned back to Justin. Well, even if he didn’t support the reasons for Justin’s behavior, he could still commiserate with being reprimanded by their parents. That was new for Clay as well—having a live-in confidante and sounding board.

“How long are you grounded for?”

“2 days.”

Clay’s sympathy for Justin dissipated somewhat. “That’s it?! You got off easy. So stop complaining.” 

“Fuck, I’m not complaining!” Justin grimaced. “I’ve had a lot shittier punishments than this, and for shit reason too.”

Justin's words knocked Clay back a step, literally. He collapsed back onto his bed, thinking of what his father had said to him the day of his testimony at the courthouse. _”No one's punished for anything anymore.”_ Justin’s past was proof that wasn’t true. But, then again, abuse wasn't punishment.

Justin didn’t talk much about his mother or her ex-boyfriends. But it happened more and more often these days that he would throw out these little asides, little hints at things from his past that spoke of the terror he had lived under for most of his life. It made Clay want to be more careful, more sensitive about how he handled his interactions with Justin. It also made him want to be unapologetically blunt. 

He couldn’t believe it needed to be said, but he needed to make sure he said it: “My parents don’t hit me. Or each other. Ever. And they wouldn’t hit you.”

Justin looked at him in shock. “I know that! Jesus, I didn’t mean–, Clay, I’m sorry. I would never think that!”

Well, good. At least there was that. Clay had seriously feared for a second there that Justin’s brooding went deeper, a remnant from his abusive childhood. But, no, Justin was just acting like a 3-year-old, adopting the classic childish sulk that his mother disliked so much.

Justin pushed his blanket cocoon away and sat up. “I hate that your parents are angry with me.”

Clay shook his head. “They’re not angry. They’re disappointed, and, trust me, that’s much worse.” He turned on his side, head on an elbow, staring at Justin. “Now, me, _I’m_ angry. Do you care about that?”

“No?”

Clay grabbed his pillow and threw it at Justin.

“Really, Clay?” Justin lobbed the pillow back at him.

Clay caught it easily. “Look, they could have grounded you until your probation ends. Or taken away your phone. Or given you more chores. So, all in all, I think you're getting the ‘you’re new here, so we'll take pity on you punishment’. Which, may I point out, I can't cash in on, so you should count yourself lucky.”

“You're right,” Justin admitted, a petulant whine in his voice. He looked ready to dive back into his blankets.

 _Shit._ Clay couldn’t take a Justin Foley pity party right now. It wasn't as much fun as he had thought it would be, to see Justin in trouble with his parents. So much for schadenfreude. 

“Do you want to play a video game?” Clay offered reluctantly. “Uncharted?”

Justin perked up. “You hate that game.”

Clay threw up his hands. “Yeah, well, you like it.”

“Okay.” Justin leapt up and offered Clay a hand. But when he reached for it, Justin tackled him backward onto the bed. 

Clay grunted and instinctually flipped Justin over, using the other boy’s momentum against him. But he was soon pinned, Justin laughing above him, his weight lightly holding him in place. _Asshole._ Clay pushed, and Justin yielded for a second, so Clay brought his arms up to Justin’s neck for a gentle head-lock. Justin twisted to the side, elbowing Clay in the ribs. 

Well, okay, apparently, they were wrestling now. It was one of the puzzling ways in which Justin expressed affection. It was a good stress reliever, Clay had to admit, even if Justin did fight dirty.

Minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Justin released Clay and they straightened up, both out of breath. 

“Do I need to break this up?” His father leaned against the doorframe, perplexed. Clay knew his dad didn’t really think that they were fighting; more than likely he was just surprised that Clay was actually enjoying such pointless tussling. 

“No, Dad, we're just horsing around.”

“Okay. Good, good. I didn’t hear you get in. How was work?”

“Work was fine.” 

“Fantastic.” His dad smiled and then attempted to look serious. “So, Clay, Justin’s been grounded.” 

Clay glanced at Justin, who had pulled his knees up to his chest, head down.

“Yeah, he told me,” Clay answered because Justin was clearly not going to say anything.

His father studied them, thoughtful. “So, I was thinking that since we won't be leaving the house tomorrow, we could tackle the flower gardens in the backyard. They're looking a mess and your mother’s not happy.”

Justin uncoiled his back, suddenly attentive and enthusiastic. “Yeah, definitely! Let's do it.” His tone was obsequious, his face sincere and open.

Clay shot Justin a look that he hoped was as clear as an “are-you-fucking-serious?” would have been.

His dad was oblivious. “Excellent! 9 a.m. sharp. Night, boys.” 

“Night, Dad.”

“Night, Mr. Jensen.”

When his dad’s footsteps had receded down the hall, Clay scowled at Justin.

“What?” Justin asked innocently.

“Did you seriously just volunteer me for manual labor so that you could earn back brownie points with my dad?”

Justin rolled his eyes and made to stand up.

This time it was Clay who tackled Justin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Justin likes to wrestle. This is canon, and it is beautiful. 
> 
> Does Clay even still work at the Crestmont? If he doesn’t, he does in my fic. *hand wave*
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. 'Tis the Scarlet Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty’s causing problems at school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Early October, 3 weeks before Justin’s probation ends.
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: Physical violence, Self-inflicted violence, Montgomery de la Cruz
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, **7** , 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

It was pure chance that Justin even ended up at Clay’s locker that morning. He hadn’t planned on it. 

But, somehow, Clay’s French book had ended up in his backpack in place of his American History textbook. Justin didn’t really need the book; he barely even opened the snoozefest, unless he had to copy down vocabulary. But he knew that Clay would care about his French book. He was anal about things like that. Justin had contemplated scrawling _'Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?'_ on the title page before giving it back, but he had a feeling that Clay wouldn’t appreciate that very much. 

Justin shouldered his way through waves of tiny freshmen and sophomores, hoping that he would arrive in time. He knew that Clay always stopped to exchange his books at his locker between 3rd and 4th period. And, yes, Clay was there. But—

_Shit._

He wasn’t the only one there. Monty had his hand pressed against Clay’s locker, preventing it from opening. Clay’s backpack was on the floor, books spilling out. Clay was silently fuming. Monty was laughing. _Fuck._ He was hassling Clay yet again. Ever since they had started school in September, Monty had taken a special interest in making Clay miserable. He did it to all of them, really, but Clay, along with Alex, had become his favorite target.

Monty blamed Clay for Bryce’s transfer and the loss of Bryce had clearly hit Monty hard. Between that, and the rumblings going around school that Monty was in deep shit over some unsavory confrontation with Tyler Down, his former friend had turned up the dial to ten on his douchebaggery. 

By the time Justin got to Clay’s locker, Monty had his hand curled around the back of Clay’s neck. It could, from a distance, be misinterpreted as a friendly gesture. Justin knew better.

“Get your fucking hands off of him, Monty.” Justin forcefully slid in between Clay and Monty, getting up in the other boy’s face.

Monty, surprisingly, did drop his hand, turning his attention to Justin.

“Why? You want a go at him? Oh wait, you’re too good for that now, huh?”

“Justin,” Clay cautioned. Justin didn’t look at him; he kept eye contact with Monty, not budging. He knew what Clay would say because he had said it over and over again in the past month: _Keep your head down. You can’t fight, Justin. You can’t get in trouble._ There were still three weeks of probation left. It was fucking torture.

“You’re a fucking bully,” Justin hissed. “It’s pathetic. Trying to repay to other people what your father does to you.”

Monty snickered and ran his index finger along Justin’s shirt collar. “No, what’s pathetic is you coming to Jensen’s defense. But I guess you owe him, right? You never said, just what _did_ you have to do to get a key to his house? Scrub his toilets? Suck his dick?”

A year ago, Justin would have had to defend himself. Protect his image. Protect his masculinity. But now, he knew that Monty was just trying to provoke him. He knew Monty well. Too well. It was like looking in a mirror. It disturbed Justin to think about how similar they were. They had both been broken boys from broken homes, and Bryce had swooped in and preyed on their insecurities, on their desperate desire for family, and he had molded them into something lower and more despicable than the raw material had been. Or at least that was what Justin chose to believe. He _hadn't_ been trash from birth: Matt and Lainie had drilled that point home. But, whenever Justin found himself empathizing with Monty, doubt came trickling back in. _I am you. Deep down, I'm no better than you._

“Justin, let’s go,” Clay said. He shuffled around him and bent down to pick up his books, haphazardly stuffing them back into his backpack.

Yeah, Justin should walk away. He would have, if it had been only him. But Monty messing with Clay—that was not okay. 

“Don’t fuck with Clay,” he warned Monty, keeping one eye on Clay. “You fuck with him, you fuck with me.”

Monty looked amused. “Is that supposed to scare me? You’re fucking castrated.” His face turned thoughtful. “When does your probation end anyway?”

Justin did not respond, a tendril of fear creeping in.

“End of October, isn’t that right?” Monty smirked. “Let’s see how _this_ looks for your probation.” 

Without warning, Monty’s fist shot forward, slamming into Justin’s chest. Before the pain had even registered, Justin’s hand had curled instinctually and was swinging at Monty’s face. It wasn’t much of a punch, but the ring he had on his right hand—the ring that had been a gift from his new parents—gouged into the side of Monty’s cheek, drawing blood.

_Fuck. Fuck, no._

Justin should have expected something like this. Monty had taken his fair share of punches from his father. He knew, like Justin did, the feeling of being cornered in your own home, someone bigger and stronger coming at you. You quickly learned that you had to respond immediately, to hit back, so you could escape and get the fuck out of there. After a certain point, it became reflex. Monty and Justin had that reflex in common, and it was going to ruin Justin now.

 _Fuck. Fuck._ Three weeks. He had had only three weeks left.

“Hey!” A teacher’s voice rang out from down the hall. They had been seen. There was no escaping it.

Justin saw the blood on Monty’s face. Saw Clay's appalled face as he stood up, his backpack forgotten on the floor. 

Justin felt like crying. He had screwed it up. 

Three fucking weeks.

 

* * *

 

Clay’s first emotion was anger, but not at Justin. He had seen Justin’s reaction when Monty had struck him. It hadn’t been planned or calculated. It had been instinct and Clay couldn’t fault him for that. At home, Justin would startle sometimes when Clay woke him up, limbs flailing. It was a conditioned response.

No, what made Clay angry was the devastation on Justin’s face when he realized what he had done. It was Monty’s pleased and cocky smile as they heard a teacher call out from down the hall. There was no way to spin this, not when Monty was bleeding, not when there was a teacher who had witnessed it. But what had the teacher seen, exactly?

The warning bell rang out and the hallway became even more congested as students rushed to their classes. Clay looked down the hall and saw that the teacher who had yelled out was Mr. Steffen, a disillusioned freshman science teacher. He was struggling to push his way through to where they were. Clay had a sudden idea, bolstered when he spied Zach passing nearby. 

“Zach!” he called. Zach stepped over, puzzled. Wasting no time in explanation, Clay grabbed him and positioned him until he blocked the line of sight between himself and Mr. Steffen, who was now lost in the sea of students but still determinedly fighting against the crowd to reach them.

Zach eyed him curiously but didn’t move. Clay turned to the row of lockers. Luckily, there was no time to contemplate how much this was going to hurt. He braced himself for half a second and then slammed his right fist into the vents of the nearest locker. The sharp edges sliced into his skin, an intense knife-edged pain, but he gritted his teeth and did it again, then once more, until he could feel the blood sliding down his middle three fingers.

“What the fuck, Clay!” Justin’s hands gripped his shoulders, one on each side, roughly pulling him backward and away. He needn’t have. Clay had already accomplished his purpose. He brought his left hand over to his right and hastily smeared the welling blood into the grooves of his knuckles and up his fingers to try and hide the scratches he had just inflicted.

Monty was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You are fucking crazy, Jensen.” Despite his words, Monty sounded impressed. Clay didn’t care. He didn’t want his admiration. He hadn’t done it for him.

Clay felt one of Justin’s hands move to his back, tapping nervously. Then, Justin gripped his arm, insistently pulling him away from Monty. Clay planted his feet and refused to be moved. He knew why Justin was anxious, and it wasn’t a good reason. Clay wasn’t losing his shit. He knew what he was doing.

“You boys stay right there!” Mr. Steffen’s voice was close now. Clay shook Justin off. “Justin,” Clay commanded. “Be quiet, and don’t fucking say a word.” Seeing Justin’s reluctance, he added: “Please. Trust me, okay?”

Justin nodded resignedly and then took a step backward. It hadn’t always been this easy with Justin, to get him to trust Clay without a protest or debate. Hell, it hadn’t been easy all that long ago for Clay to put his faith in Justin either. They had come a long way.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Steffen said to Zach. Zach looked to Clay for assent. Clay nodded and Zach moved aside. Mr. Steffen surveyed the small crowd dispassionately and then his eyes found Monty’s cheek where the small horizontal cut dripped a thin rivulet of blood.

“What happened?” Mr. Steffen’s face was listless, his tone dispassionate. That was a good sign.

Monty pointed at Justin angrily, his voice dropping an octave, making him sound like a whiny, and annoying, child. “Justin punched me, Mr. Steffen. For no reason.”

Before Mr. Steffen could even look at Justin, Clay jumped in. “He’s lying. Monty attacked _me_. So, I defended myself.”

Monty huffed. “It wasn’t Clay! It was Justin.”

Zach stepped forward, a united front beside Clay. “It was Clay,” Zach confirmed. “I was right here.”

“They’re covering for him,” Monty countered. “Clay’s his brother, and he’s just trying to keep him from taking responsibility for his actions.”

_Fucking Monty._

Mr. Steffen hesitated, looking skeptically between Clay and Justin. Most of the faculty knew Justin, even if they had never had him in one of their classes. At the very least, they knew the crime Justin had been charged with (news spread fast at Liberty High). They knew that he was on probation. These unfortunate facts made Justin an easy scapegoat. It would be all too easy for Justin to take the full fall for this, and he was the one with the most to lose.

This was, therefore, a hard sell, but Clay had already made sure that he could sell it. He raised his hand, knuckles facing outward. The blood had clumped in little thick globules with an outward smear of red.

“It was me,” Clay emphasized, keeping his face as steady as he could. Eye contact was the key; his mother had told him how a jury was predisposed to distrust a shifty-eyed witness, even if their story made factual sense. 

After a moment, Mr. Steffen’s eyes flicked from Clay’s knuckles to Monty’s cheek. And then he nodded disinterestedly, apparently wanting to pass this off to someone else as quickly as possible. He gestured at Clay. “Clay, was it?”

Clay nodded hopefully.

“All right. Clay, Montgomery, both of you walk with me to the Principal’s office.”

“Come on, really?” Monty complained, but he moved beside Clay as Mr. Steffen herded them down the hall. 

As they walked, Monty tilted his head toward Clay and muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Justin must take real good care of you.” He curled his left hand into a circle and then jerked it up and down in an obscene gesture. 

_What a prick_ , Clay thought disgustedly. Monty didn’t have a clue.

 

* * *

 

When Clay exited the main office, his detention slip in hand, he found Justin sitting on the floor, back against the lockers, waiting. Clay’s backpack was sitting beside Justin’s on the floor. Clay had forgotten that he had left it behind in the scuffle.

“Why aren’t you in class?” Clay asked, even though he was not really all that surprised to find Justin waiting there.

“I have PE this period. Who cares if you miss PE, really?”

“Good point.”

Justin gestured at the slip of paper in his hand. “What’s the damage?”

“One week detention.”

“Fuck,” Justin said. He looked guilty.

“It’s not that bad,” Clay assured him. “Monty got three weeks.”

“Why?”

“For, and I quote, ‘Demonstrating a troubling pattern of antisocial behavior’.”

“So, for being a dick.”

“Essentially, yeah.”

Clay reached down for his backpack, which Justin handed up to him. Justin stood, one-handedly slinging his own backpack up to his shoulder. Clay noticed that he was clutching a washcloth in his other hand.

“What’s that for?” Clay asked.

Justin unfolded the washcloth and held up a tube of antibiotic ointment. “I went to the nurse and got this for your hand.”

Clay nodded in gratitude. “She let you take that?”

Justin winked at Clay. “I have my ways.”

Clay sighed. “I don’t even want to know.” 

Justin grinned.

They walked together to the nearest bathroom. Clay immediately leaned against the nearest sink while Justin turned on the adjacent sink’s tap and ran the washcloth under it. Then he reached for Clay’s hand, which Clay trustingly relinquished to him. 

Clay could have easily done this himself, but, after all the adrenaline he had expended earlier, it was nice to have someone else take the lead. Justin gently wiped the blood off Clay’s knuckles, pausing whenever Clay hissed in pain and rewetting the washcloth with fresh water. He was very focused, his expression as steady and deliberate as if he were performing reconstructive hand surgery. Clay found it surprisingly touching. It was further proof why he had been right to do what he had.

When the blood was mostly gone, Justin took the tube of antibiotic ointment and began to slather on the gel in excessive heaps. The sting in Clay’s hand began to dissipate immediately, the coolness soothing.

“I’m sorry, Clay,” Justin finally said as he recapped the stopper on the ointment.

Clay scoffed. “Why? He fucking deserved it.”

“No, for this.” Justin skimmed his fingers lightly over the back of Clay’s hand, avoiding the gel, and then circled his hand around Clay’s wrist, a solid and steady warmth, before letting go.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Clay consoled him. “It was worth it.” He studied Justin carefully. “How are your ribs?”

Justin shrugged, dismissive. “He didn't hit me that hard. He just wanted to–“ He paused, unsure.

“Startle you into reacting?” Clay finished. He wanted Justin to know he understood.

“Yeah.”

Clay flexed his fingers and then gingerly made a fist. It barely hurt anymore.

Justin met his gaze. So much could be said in one look. 

_I’m sorry._

**It’s okay.**

_I won't do it again._

**I _would_ do it again.**

_I’ve got your back._

**I've got yours.**

__

Nothing was said, but everything was said.

Justin smiled and leaned his weight backward against the sink. “You know, we’re lucky the teachers here are a fucking joke. Because there’s no way your knuckles would look like that after really punching someone. And Monty was barely bleeding, while your hand looks like you were grinding it into broken glass.”

“Yeah, lucky us,” Clay quipped. It would have been funny, if so many Liberty High School students did not have to suffer from said teachers’ lack of perception.

“We’re going to get you an escort,” Clay said, staring at the grungy bathroom tiles across the way.

“A what?” Justin questioned, laughing.

“An escort. So, you’re never alone in the halls.” Seeing Justin’s skeptical expression, he continued, ”You know Monty’s going to try everything he can to get you in trouble before your probation ends. So, I’ll arrange it over group text. Zach, Alex, Tony, Sheri. They’ll be happy to do it. And it’s only for three weeks anyway.”

Justin was quiet. Finally, he asked, “You don’t trust me?”

“You, I trust,” Clay reassured him. “It’s Monty I’m worried about.”

“Okay,” Justin consented. Clay smiled, pleased at how easily he had agreed. It was nice that he was finally not self-sabotaging his own happiness. 

“Let’s not call it an escort, though,” Justin complained, pushing off from the sink.

Clay followed suit.

“Chaperone?” 

“No.”

“Bodyguard?”

“No.”

“Secret Service?”

“Does that make me the President?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Fuck yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Justin could have totally taken Clay to the nurse, but he wanted to look after Clay himself, yes/yes? Also, do not follow Clay’s example and punch a locker vent to make it look like you had just punched someone. Only someone like Clay could make that work, lol. 
> 
> • I realized after writing this that the Liberty High School lockers do not even have vents (what???). So, consider this an AU Liberty High School, I guess?
> 
> • I put Justin’s probation ending at the end of October because that would be 6 months after when he got out of juvie, which was the end of April. 
> 
> • How do Clay and Justin explain this to their parents? ;)


	8. No Surrender, No Retreat #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin is reluctant to say anything about Clay's deteriorating mental health. Clay, on the other hand, would have a lot to say about Justin’s heroin addiction—if only he knew it was still an issue.
> 
> A confrontation arises that forces both boys to face hard truths. Part 1 of 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: August, Post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For All 3 Parts: Discussions of mental health, suicide, and heroin addiction. 
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, **8** , 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Part One**

It wasn't like Justin didn't see what was happening with Clay. He saw it. And he wasn't ignorant of how serious it was. It didn’t get much more serious than holding a gun up to your temple, pleading with an apparition only you could see.

Clay’s mental state was _Fucked_. Or it was on its way to getting to _Fucked_. Or it had already way passed _Fucked_. Whatever, it didn’t matter. Justin couldn’t quantify it, but he _knew_ it. And he feared that he was the only person to know it, which was why he had questioned Clay about the gun the day of his court testimony. To make sure it would not happen again. Their conversation shouldn’t have been the end of it, but then things had unraveled.

Those first few nights in juvenile detention, Justin had woken up with night sweats, feeling like he had left something critical untended… or rather someone. Had Clay gotten rid of the gun, like he said he would? Were Monty and the rest of Bryce’s boys making Clay’s life at school a living hell? _Was he okay?_

When Clay had shown up with his parents at juvie for the first of several weekly visits, Justin’s fear had subsided somewhat. Clay was composed and put together, and, even if it was a front for Justin’s sake, it was reassuring all the same. It made his heart beat more levelly. He had no more night sweats. What he did have was plenty of time to think. 

He thought about Hannah. How he had taken something so sweet and promising between them and sacrificed it at Bryce’s altar. How he had never second-guessed his actions or processed his part in her death because he had been so focused on protecting Jessica. Strike one.

Jessica. He had tried to rationalize his part in her assault, and when that hadn’t worked, he had moved to damage control. He had tried to shield her from the truth and, in so doing, had betrayed her again—in a fundamental, unforgivable way. The juvie staff talked a lot about personal responsibility. Most of the boys scoffed and dismissed it as bullshit, but Justin saw the truth in it. The words were like shining pillars in the far distance: **Personal Responsibility**. He realized that he had never really had any. He had handed his off to Bryce. Jess had been his strike two.

Alex. If Justin had been paying attention, surely he would have noticed that Alex was contemplating suicide? _If I kill myself, do you die, too?_ Alex had practically laid it out for him. For fuck’s sake, Justin had stayed at Alex’s house, was one of the last people to see him before he took up his father’s gun. Justin had been so focused on Bryce and Jessica that he had abandoned Alex to his misery. Strike three.

Three strikes, you’re out.

But it wasn’t like it had started with Hannah. How many times had he fucked his own mother over? He had tried to help her. He’d convinced her to leave her jerk of a boyfriend… only for her to find a new one, who was much, much worse. He had wheedled her into saving their money and going to the grocery store instead of the corner drug dealer… only for her to leave the apartment and pimp her body out in order to get her nightly fix. He had stepped between her and her abusive douche-of-the-month boyfriend… only to get sliced with a broken beer bottle, which had needed stitches at the urgent care and used up all their rent money. They had had to live in a run-down battered women’s shelter for the next three weeks, a fact that his mother had held over his head for months afterwards. 

Justin never really helped anything. He just made things worse. He was always breaking what he loved.

Case in point: His mother used to have a snow globe that she had loved more than anything. He sometimes thought it had meant more to her than he ever had. The snow globe had been a present from her mother, Justin’s grandmother, whom Justin had never met because she had died of breast cancer before he had been born. The globe contained a little girl skating on ice, carefree and protected in her glass home. 

Justin had loved that snow globe. He was never allowed to hold it. "It's not for you," his mother would always say. But, one day, when his mother was resting on the couch, Justin had stood on tiptoe and taken the globe off its high shelf. It had been so much heavier than he thought it would be in his small hands. It slipped right out of his grasp onto the hardwood floor of their apartment and shattered. Justin would always remember the pain of that afternoon. His mother hadn't yelled at him. She had merely stood there silently, looking at the glass shards that were her only childhood memento. Then, she had collapsed sobbing on the floor.

Justin had tried to help clean up the glass, but, when he had picked up the first piece, it had cut deeply into his palm. He had cried out, and his mother had looked at him from behind her bloodshot eyes and whispered, "I told you not to fucking touch it." Justin had gone to the bathroom to wrap his hand in a towel, ashamed and sad. The wound had never really healed. He still had the scar. 

That event was the perfect blueprint for the rest of his life. It was as if every person he wanted to help was a glass jar full of cracks and with one touch of his finger, Justin shattered them. His mother. Hannah. Jess. Alex. 

He refused to add Clay to the list. 

_Don't touch, Justin. Just don't touch._

Clay had freaked him out at Bryce’s, but, whatever it was, Clay could pull through it. He was strong, so much stronger than Justin was. He may have had a setback, but he would rally. If things would just calm down, Clay would be fine.

Still, after juvie, after that shitstorm of a school dance, when Justin was lying on the couch in Clay’s bedroom, he had ventured, "Clay, your gun, the one you took to Bryce’s, you got rid of it, right?" 

Clay’s voice was hollow. “Yeah, I did.” He laughed dryly. “That turned out to be a big mistake.”

Justin’s blood ran cold. "Why?"

“Because it was Tyler's gun,” Clay said. “I gave it back to him, and look how that turned out.” 

Fuck. And that had ended that conversation.

The next day, Justin had searched Clay's room, frantically opening every drawer, looking behind every book on his bookshelf, even wriggling under the bed, looking for the gun that Clay had supposedly given away. It wasn't because he distrusted Clay, exactly, but rather because he knew how untrustworthy he himself was. He was, after all, hiding the money he had stolen from Seth, hiding the heroin he was supposedly no longer using. 

Justin never found a gun, but he didn’t find peace of mind either. He kept his eye on Clay attentively those first weeks. Clay seemed okay, which wasn't saying much. Everyone in Justin's social circle, everyone in his life really, was massively fucked up, so his judgment of what was normal was whacked. He didn’t know how to read that barometer, let alone decide what measurements needed immediate attention.

One night, Justin lingered outside the door to their bedroom, paralyzed by the sound of Clay’s choked off words on the other side. Who was he talking to? If he opened the door, would he find Clay arguing with thin air? But then Justin heard Mr. Jensen's foot on the stair. He was forced to enter the room or else be seen lurking like a stalker outside Clay's bedroom. When he opened the door, he found Clay pacing, his cellphone to his ear. Justin exhaled with relief.

"Hold on a second, Tony," Clay said when he saw Justin, leaving the room to continue his private conversation, shutting the door behind him. Justin wasn't insulted. It was fucking fantastic. It meant Clay was getting help from Tony. Tony would make sure everything was okay. But later that night, it occurred to Justin that Tony couldn't help if he didn't know what was really going on.

 _Don't touch. Don't touch._ This became his mantra whenever he was tempted to intervene.

Mr. and Mrs. Jensen were good parents. Justin knew this to be fact because he had never had a good one. The contrast was evident in every interaction he had with them, every gesture, every word. Surely Justin could leave Clay’s mental health to them. Surely they would notice if Clay had a serious issue. And they did seem to at times. There was many a worried conversation in the Jensen household; Justin would lean against the wall and eavesdrop as Mr. and Mrs. Jensen talked about how Clay wasn’t sleeping, how he would stay in bed for hours at a time, not engaging with them. But the conversations never seemed to go anywhere, and Clay would always bounce back to normal and reassure everyone that all was well.

So, although the Jensens were aware that Clay was acting oddly, they didn’t know the whole story. They didn't know about the gun, about Bryce, about the full truth of what had happened with Tyler. The only person who knew all those things was Justin.

How was fate so cruel: To position someone to witness Clay's distress but to have that person be Justin Foley?

There was one solution: Justin could tell somebody. He could out Clay. But, no. Justin couldn’t go behind Clay’s back and snitch to his parents. He didn’t have the right. After everything Clay had done for him, how could one of his first acts of repayment be a betrayal? They were building something, the two of them, something Justin did not want to risk.

So, okay, maybe Justin didn’t actively tackle the problem, but he certainly did not sit complacently by and ignore the symptoms either. He sat beside Clay when he seemed to be having a rough day, followed him around whenever he could, woke him up when he had nightmares, forced him out of the house, pushed him in Tony’s direction. He even acted dumb (well, okay, _dumber_ ) just to get Clay to smile. They may have been stopgap measures, but at least they weren’t hurting anything. And that had to be enough.

 

* * *

 

Months passed, and September was looming. The day of Justin’s official adoption was coming up; the closer it got, the sicker at heart he felt. It should have excited him, to legally cement his place here, to no longer be adrift. Instead, it only terrified him. 

The end of August also meant that the new school year was coming up. Fuck if Justin knew why, but Clay seemed worse. More morose, more temperamental, more erratic. If Justin thought about it, he guessed it did make sense. So much of Clay’s worrying behavior had roots in the poisonous hallways of Liberty High. It looked like Justin was not the only one with something to dread.

It was Wednesday night. They had eaten dinner, and now Justin and Clay were up in their bedroom. For the second night in a row, Justin was reading the new comic series that Clay had gotten in the mail (Justin supposed that the fact that Clay had given him first dibs should have been a warning sign). For the second night in a row, Clay was whispering in his bed, holding his head in his hands. They had an unspoken agreement: Clay would pretend it was just a headache; Justin would accept it and not hassle Clay about it.

It was fucking stupid. 

Justin threw the comic book aside and swung his legs to the side of his bed.

He didn’t know what had shifted in him or why he suddenly could no longer bear to follow his own directive not to touch. Maybe it was because the closer he got to Clay, the less able he was to push away the fear of losing him. Maybe it was because he was almost legally Clay’s brother and to say nothing seemed like a betrayal of that brotherhood rather than the mark of trust that he had once thought it was. Or maybe it was the looming threat of Liberty High School, which Justin feared would snap the fraying thread that was Clay’s mental state and send him unbalanced back into the dark. All of these reasons, none of these reasons… There was just a sudden feeling of urgency.

Justin climbed off his bed but stood frozen, staring at the back of Clay’s black hoodie. How could you reach out a hand to pull someone up out of the ocean depths when you were standing on sinking sand, waiting to be submerged yourself? You couldn’t. But maybe someone else could.

Justin squatted down beside Clay’s bed. He lightly ran his hand down his foster brother's back, gently, gently. He could be careful. He could. He could.

Clay rolled over and looked at him warily. “Justin. It’s just a headache,” he reassured. “I’m okay.”

Justin, throat tight, curled his fingers into the cloth of Clay’s hoodie and finally said the words that had been waiting in his mind since that harrowing evening at Bryce's:

“Clay, I don't think that you're okay. And I know it's fucking scary, but I think you need help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Okay, I’m really nervous about these chapters. These issues are very serious. I am not a mental health professional, and I don’t mean to distress or hurt anyone by what I write. *Love you all*
> 
> • Next chapter: Part 2. The boys talk. (Does arguing count as talking? idk)


	9. No Surrender, No Retreat #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3: Justin is reluctant to say anything about Clay's deteriorating mental health. Clay, on the other hand, would have a lot to say about Justin’s heroin addiction—if only he knew it was still an issue.
> 
> A confrontation arises that forces both boys to face hard truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: August, Post 2x13
> 
> Warnings: Discussions of mental health, suicide, and heroin addiction. References to guns & gun violence.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, **9** , 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Part Two**

__  
**Wednesday**  


_It’s not Tyler. It’s not Tyler!_

If Clay repeated it enough times, maybe he could finally find some peace—or at least some sleep.

“You can’t ignore me, Clay,” not-Tyler said. Clay tried to anyway, digging his fists into his temples, pressing his face into the soft sheets of his bed.

“I have a lot of pain I want to pay back,” Tyler continued. “Not to you, of course. But you’re welcome to join me. I’ve got plenty of guns. You can have first pick.”

“Please stop,” Clay whispered. It was futile. A hallucination wouldn’t listen to your pleas, and it was hard to ignore a voice that came from inside your own head. The only solace for Clay was that it was Tyler Down haunting him now instead of Hannah Baker. He didn’t know what he would do if she were to return. Tyler, at least, was still alive out there in the world. Hurting and damaged, maybe, but still breathing… Still able to be saved.

Clay jerked when he felt a hand begin gently rubbing up and down his back. What the fucking hell? Had Tyler become corporeal? Was that the next progression?

When Clay turned over, though, it was only Justin kneeling beside his bed, eyes both wide and guarded.

“Justin. It’s just a headache,” Clay said. “I’m okay.”

The muscles in Justin’s face twitched. Then, he was tightening his hand into Clay’s hoodie, almost angrily, Clay thought. “Clay,” Justin said. “I don't think that you're okay. And I know it's fucking scary, but I think you need help.”

Clay stared up at Justin, Tyler’s nonexistent voice ringing in his head, still taunting him. He dismissed it and pushed himself up until he was sitting upright, a glare directed at his soon-to-be brother. “What the fuck are you talking about, Justin?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Justin looked ready to cry, or to vomit on Clay’s bed, or maybe to fight. None of those possibilities appealed to Clay. He tried to focus, to come up with a quick excuse that would cause Justin to back off, but his mind was too much of a confused jumble. Tyler was Clay’s secret. There was no way Justin could know about him. So this had to be, yet again, about the gun, about Bryce. Justin had never let that go, despite the fact that it had been months, _months_ since that night at Bryce’s house. With one week to go until Justin’s adoption, Justin must be looking to stir shit up. It was just like him.

Clay stood up, pushing past Justin, out of the room and to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He heard Justin following a step behind him. Clay cursed under his breath but did not slow down. When he reached the first floor, he found his parents sitting on the couch, talking and laughing. They glanced his way briefly, so Clay, to avoid any chitchat, opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The air was hot and sticky. Cloying. So much held moisture promised a rainstorm soon. 

Justin joined Clay on the porch, closing the door quietly behind him. Clay had known he would follow him; Justin was, after all, a stubborn ass when he set his mind to it. Still, if whatever this was had to happen, it had seemed important to Clay to get out of their bedroom. At least, out here, the chirrups of the crickets would drown out the pounding in his head. 

Justin just stood there stupidly, his hand braced against the side paneling of the house. 

“Spit it out, Justin,” Clay snapped. 

“Okay,” Justin began haltingly. “I think you’re depressed… or something? And when shit gets bad, you–, I don’t know exactly what it is, it’s like you talk to people who aren’t there. Or you try to hurt yourself.” Justin's voice was shaky, his shoulders hunched, his fingers repeatedly tracing imaginary whorls on the wall. He was looking directly at Clay, yet somehow seemed to be looking through him too, as if he were afraid of Clay’s reaction. 

“You need help, Clay."

Clay thought of Tyler’s apparition, who thankfully had stayed behind in their bedroom and not followed them downstairs. Okay, so that wasn’t an ideal situation, but when compared with what some Liberty High students dealt with on a daily basis—abuse, rape, a gunshot wound to the head—it seemed inconsequential. “I don't need help, Justin,” he said firmly.

Seeing how Justin’s body practically convulsed at his words ( _how fucking dramatic_ ), Clay continued, “Hannah needed help. Alex needed help. Tyler did. Bryce–, Bryce needs a fucking straightjacket.”

Justin raised his eyebrows. “What makes you so different?”

“Because I’m okay! I'm handling it.” Clay stared Justin down, daring him to disagree.

Justin, instead, pushed off the wall and came a step closer to Clay. The open concern in his wide eyes was maddening. “Are you? Because I've been here and I'm not so sure.”

Great. When had Justin become his third parent? What gave him, out of anyone, the right to act so condescending? 

“You're a fucking joke, Justin. So what, I let you into my life—share my bedroom, my parents, my whole goddamn world with you—and that makes you think you know when I'm okay or not? A year ago, you didn't even know my name.”

“I do now. I know _you._ ”

“Well, apparently not all that well if you thought this was a good idea. I was on medication before. I tried therapy before too. Bet you didn’t know that. Talk therapy, that’s what they called it. And it was fucking stupid.”

Justin rocked back on his heels. “While I was in juvie?” he asked.

Clay shook his head. “No, way before that.”

“Before spring semester?”

Clay turned his right hand over, throwing it up to indicate assent.

“So you don't know for sure that it wouldn't help?” Justin pressed. 

Clay deflated a little. “What even would be the point?”

Justin was quick with a response. “The point is: I don't want to find you with a gun to your head again.”

Clay huffed in annoyance and walked down the steps of the porch. “I already told you I got rid of the gun, Justin.”

Justin, infuriatingly, walked down the steps to join him. “Okay, like an allegorical gun then.” 

“Metaphorical. _Metaphorical_ gun, Justin. Jesus." He paused. "I wouldn't hurt myself. Okay?”

Justin took a step back, hands held up, placating. “Fine. Then what about Hannah?”

Clay stared at Justin. _What?_

“I figured it out, Clay,” Justin continued. “Who you were talking to at Bryce’s. Who you were seeing everywhere. And I looked some shit up on Google. Hearing voices, seeing people—it could be caused by stress, but it also could be schizophrenia or psychosis or a brain tumor or some shit. Something really fucking serious, Clay.”

At first, when this conversation had begun, Clay had felt like Justin had been herding him to a cliff’s edge. It had felt dangerous. Now, it seemed comedic. Not a cliff at all, just a foam pit at a town carnival. “You googled this?? This is all because you fucking googled something?”

Justin suddenly looked pissed off. “Yeah, the same way you googled how to detox someone from heroin!”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

It was as if Justin’s fire, which had flared and sparked for a brief moment, was suddenly extinguished, doused with water by Clay’s words. Now he just looked resigned. His voice, when he spoke, was almost a whisper. “No, it didn’t.“

This could not be happening. Justin was not going to put this on him too. He couldn’t take much more. “What do you mean?” He bit off each of the words.

“I lied to you. I've been lying to you.” Justin was direct, his face devoid of any emotion.

_Fuck no, Justin. Please don’t say it._

“I still shoot up heroin. I never stopped.”

Clay’s ears buzzed. There was only hot, all-consuming rage. “Fuck, Justin. Fuck. Fuck!” Clay violently kicked the step with the toe of his shoe and then did it again for good measure. 

Picking Justin up from his NA meetings… The celebration when Justin had brought home his one-month chip… All those times that Clay had distracted Justin when he seemed to be itching for a hit… It had all been a big fucking lie.

Justin at least had the sense to look abashed, staring determinedly at the ground. 

“What, this new life isn’t good enough for you?” Clay asked. “Or maybe it’s too good? Is that it? You don’t know how not to fall apart?”

“Clay, I know. I'm fucked.”

Clay had endured a lot of pain this past year—physically, emotionally, socially. This, though, this hurt in an entirely different way, and all he wanted was to pay some of that hurt back.

“What is Jessica going to think? Did you consider that, Justin, what she’ll do when she finds out that you’re lying to her yet again? She’ll probably go back to Alex.” Justin reacted to those words, as Clay knew he would. Good. “And what about Alex?” he continued. “What about me? You’re going to make us watch as you kill yourself slowly? Is that it? How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” Justin conceded. There was no fight in him any longer. He seemed to have shrunken into himself. Just like that, their dynamic had shifted. Clay had retaken the upper ground, where he rightfully belonged. This felt more familiar.

“Justin, listen to me. You’re going to give me the heroin and the needles and any other drugs you have. I’m going to clean up your mess, like I always do, and then you’re going to get clean. For real.”

Justin walked slowly forward until his face was inches from Clay’s. His stance was threatening, his face simmering with controlled fury. Well, apparently, Clay had misjudged the situation. Justin wasn’t as cowed as he had thought, and it looked like Clay was not the only one who wanted to inflict some wounds. 

“You’re acting like Bryce!” Justin gritted between clenched teeth. “Trying to control me! Treating me like a child. Using Jessica to distract me. Oh, poor Justin! That’s your fucking response? Making me feel bad so that we don’t have to talk about the real shit right in front of us. Which, by the way, is _you_ , not me!” 

Heat rushed into Clay’s face. If it had been anyone else who had said that, he would have decked them, consequences be damned. But he could never punch Justin—not with everything he knew of his past—so he settled for bringing up both his hands and shoving him in the chest, forcing him back two paces. 

Fuck Justin. Comparing him to Bryce—it was sickening, it was abhorrent. It was the lowest blow possible.

Yes, he had thrown Jessica’s name at Justin to manipulate him. It was the easiest, and surest, way to reel Justin back in, to set him back on his heels and stop him from plowing forward on whatever destructive course he had set… except, this time, Justin was actually trying (in his own idiotic way) to be constructive, at least when it came to Clay, and this pissed Clay off more than anything else. Well, he could hit back with words, if not with his fists. 

“So, if I’m Bryce, who does that make you, Justin? Your mother? A selfish fucking addict. You don’t care about anyone else, even the people who love you. The people who are going to find you overdosed on your bed.”

“Yeah? Better than finding you with your brains blown out on yours!”

Clay angrily grabbed Justin’s sleeve and pulled him close, their eyes boring into each other, blue against green. Justin did not try to pull away, but he was clearly not going to back down either.

Finally, Clay let him go and collapsed onto the porch step. After a moment, Justin did the same, facing away from him. Is this what it had come to for them? Two statues at irreconcilable odds, doomed to always face away from each other?

They sat as the fireflies came out, as the light leaked from the sky. The threatened rain never came. Rather, the air crackled—all that energy held in check, never expended, but straining to be let loose. Clay wasn’t aware of the time passing, not until his mother poked her head out of the front door.

“Boys, it's getting late. You should come in. We’re going to lock up for the night.”

Clay stood up, stamping up the steps with more force than was necessary, determined not to acknowledge Justin again. He stopped, hand on the doorknob. There was still one last thing to say. 

He did not look at Justin, but he raised his voice to make sure he was heard. “Don't you dare fucking leave.” That was the last thing he needed now, Justin running off again. An endless, repeating cycle. 

Justin’s voice was low but crisp. “I won’t. But I'm going to tell your parents. I swear I will. If you don’t.”

Clay jerked the door open and slammed it behind him. He didn’t respond to his mother’s admonition. He went up to his room and crawled into bed, not even bothering to change his clothes. Eventually, he heard Justin come in and get ready for bed.

They didn't speak.

 

* * *

 

_**Thursday** _

It was easy to avoid Justin the next day. Clay pretended to be asleep while Justin got up and, by the time Clay did roll out of bed, Justin had already left for his summer classes. 

Dinner that night, however, was excruciating. Justin pushed his food around his plate and didn’t eat, an alarming red flag since he was typically an endless pit when it came to food. His mother immediately noticed and asked Justin if he was sick. (No, he wasn’t sick.) His father tried to list every single food item in their pantry as a potential alternative dish. (Justin politely declined each one.)

Annoyed, Clay tried to ignore everyone. He mumbled non-sequiturs in reply to every question thrown his way. The result was an awkward succession of attempts by his parents to wheedle words out of him. Eventually, miraculously, they left it alone.

After dinner, Clay placed a sheet of trig exercises on Justin’s pillow and then went over to Tony’s house, skipping Justin’s evening tutoring session. Tony, as always, provided him with a welcome distraction and for hours he forgot all about Tyler, about Justin. 

When Clay returned home, he found the trig sheet on his own bed, blank. Justin hadn’t even attempted the problems. Or maybe he had, on a separate sheet, and this was just his way of saying, ‘Fuck You’. Disgusted, Clay crumpled the sheet into a ball and then tossed it back onto Justin’s bed.

He wondered when Justin was going to carry out his threat. _“I’m going to tell your parents. I swear I will. If you don’t."_ Justin hadn’t put a date on that promise, and since his parents had not yet confronted him, he figured that Justin was waiting it out. But for how long would he wait?

 

* * *

 

_**Friday** _

Clay had to get up early for his shift at the Crestmont, which meant he had no choice but to see Justin at the breakfast table. There was no way to avoid it. Family Rule #1: If you were up, family breakfast was mandatory, not optional.

Justin had a full plate of food but, as before, was not eating anything. Instead, he had his head on his hand, trying to play it off as if he were tired. After Clay had loaded his plate with pancakes and berries and had taken his seat, his mother, in fine form, wasted no time in making things uncomfortable. “Clay, what happened to the tutoring session last night?”

Clay stabbed a berry with his fork and then twirled it in a circle before giving an empty smile to his mother. “Nothing. It was a mutual cancellation.”

“Really?” his father remarked. ”That’s not what Justin said.”

Clay shot daggers Justin’s way, even though he wasn't looking at him. “What did Justin say?” Clay asked anyway.

Justin finally raised his head. “He said that you never showed up, but that you probably had some dumbass reason for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“I’ll bet."

“Fuck you."

His father stared at him in shock. His mother thunked her mug down on the table.

“Enough! One or both of you better start talking, I mean real grown-up talking, or there are going to be consequences.”

There was a prolonged stare-down across the table. Justin was daring him to be the first to speak. “Okay,” Clay said dramatically, not taking his eyes off of Justin. “Justin, will you pass the sugar?” 

“Clay Matthew!” 

Clay got a little thrill at the way his mother’s exclamation, which wasn’t even directed at Justin, made Justin wither in his seat. Why had he even brought up all these issues if he so hated confrontation?

His mother was looking from Justin to him and then back, her mouth tight. She was gearing up for a lecture. Clay could sense it rising out of her, so, before she could start, he dropped his fork and pushed his chair back.

“You know, I just remembered that I've got to be at work early to help Jerome.” Which was a lie, but his parents usually wouldn’t stand in the way of him being a responsible employee.

His mom sighed. “Fine, but we’re going to sit down as a family and talk this out. Tonight.” 

His father nodded solemnly, then tapped his hand on his forehead in sudden realization. “Crap, Lainie, I have that faculty meeting tonight.” 

His mother sighed. “And I have that debriefing tomorrow morning at work. Okay, tomorrow afternoon then. Justin, Clay. No debate. Whatever this is, it’s childish, and we’re going to resolve it. 4 p.m. tomorrow. Okay?”

Justin immediately nodded. Clay resisted the strong urge to shove him off his chair. 

“Okay, whatever,” Clay said as he opened up the cupboard to grab two granola bars. Although he couldn’t see them, he felt three pairs of eyes follow his progress out of the room. 

Not-Tyler met him in the entryway. Why did he always have to show up with an assault rifle strapped across his chest? “There is a simple solution to this mess, Clay,” Tyler told him. “Justin’s using again; it would be easy to make it look like an accident.” 

Clay was tempted to scream. Instead, he walked right through the Tyler, who vanished at the contact. On his way out of the house, he saw Justin's open backpack sitting by the door. Half-disgusted at himself for caring, Clay dropped one of his granola bars into the bag. Justin hadn’t eaten any dinner and didn’t look likely to eat any breakfast. Clay knew how hard it was to concentrate when you were hungry, and final exams were next week.

Later, sitting in the Prius, Clay considered his options. With the family meeting set, there was no longer any doubt as to when Justin was going to expose Clay’s secrets. Well, Justin had secrets of his own, and if he was going to throw Clay under the bus, Clay had no qualms about taking his soon-to-be brother with him.

Congratulations, Mom and Dad: It’s _two_ sons with a penchant for self-destruction. Which one do you want to freak out over first?

Clay hoped it would be Justin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Does Clay have a canonical middle name? I went with Matthew because it sounded nice. :))
> 
> • I messed up in a previous chapter saying that Clay still works at the Crestmont, so I'm going to roll with my mistake. Consider this an AU in that regard. 
> 
> • The first chronological appearance of Tyler as Clay's hallucination appears in my companion story "Some Baptize in Water, Some in Flames", chapter 4.


	10. No Surrender, No Retreat #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of 3. Justin is reluctant to say anything about Clay's deteriorating mental health. Clay, on the other hand, would have a lot to say about Justin’s heroin addiction—if only he knew it was still an issue.
> 
> A confrontation arises that forces both boys to face hard truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: August, Post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For All 3 Parts: Discussions of mental health, suicide, and heroin addiction.
> 
> Additional Warnings For This Chapter: References to guns & gun violence. Sexist & ableist language.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, **10** , 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Part Three**

  
  
**Justin**  


_**Saturday Morning** _

A loud crash violently pulled Justin to wakefulness. 

_What the fuck!_

Justin was instantly on the defensive, ready to protect himself. But there was no one looming over him, no one to fight off. He sat up and rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to make sense of what he saw. Clay was standing in the middle of the room and staring at him intently. All the books that had been on their desk the night before were now on the floor. 

Okay, so Clay had knocked them off on purpose… just to wake Justin up? Why was Clay fucking with him in this way? It wasn’t going to change anything that had been said or make him back down from saying anything tonight at the family meeting.

Justin scowled at Clay, and when that didn’t produce any results, he threw his bed sheets back and went to go take a shower. After getting dressed, he slipped down the stairs and quietly out the front door, locking it behind him with his key. Turning around, Justin paused, surprised. The Prius was missing from the street. Clay must have hurried to get ready while Justin was in the shower and left for God knows where. Since avoiding Clay had been Justin’s intent, there was no real reason that he had to leave now.

He left anyway. He could use a walk.

The last few days with Clay had been a fucking mess. No talking. No teasing. Just complete radio silence between them. It wasn’t a new experience. Justin was used to being ignored by most people in his life. His mother was the prime example, but he hadn’t much wanted to speak to her a lot of the time anyway. Being ignored by Clay, though, was uncomfortable. He kept finding himself wanting to catch Clay's eye, to tell him some stupid thing Mrs. Jefferson had said in algebra class, to ask him what he thought about the crazy twist in Alien Killer Robots issue #23. 

In short, Justin missed Clay. When had he come to take him for granted? It was a very dangerous thing—relying on someone else, using them as an emotional anchor. He knew better.

It wasn’t just Clay; Justin had become too attached to all of the Jensens. He thought of Lainie, who was probably already at her firm, confidently slaying whatever legal dragons she faced. She would be expecting to find them all home at 4 o’clock sharp, ready for opening statements. Justin thought of Matt, who was probably in the kitchen at this very moment, cooking up a large batch of pancakes or waffles or French toast. Justin imagined him loading up the kitchen table with his creations, only to find all the kitchen chairs empty, his family gone. 

Justin should probably text Matt that he had left the house, but he was tempted to let it go. The Jensens didn’t often question his whereabouts, unless they conflicted with his curfew or his schoolwork. It wasn’t because they were uncaring or absentminded. They were nothing like his own mother. She had never worried about where Justin was. He could disappear for days at a time, a week even, and when he would return home, she wouldn’t even acknowledge that he had been gone. _Oh, there you are. I’d forgotten about you, but since you’re here now..._

No, it was different with Matt and Lainie. They were trustworthy people. Really, if Justin thought about it, they were _too_ trustworthy, and that was part of the problem. It was probably why Clay had been able to appear okay to them for so long. Well, the image they had of their son would be shattered tonight. And if Clay didn’t confess, Justin would have to do it for him. He wondered whether Matt and Lainie would be grateful to him for ratting Clay out. Or would they resent him? Perhaps even blame him? 

_Our son was fine before you came along, Justin._ Except, if Clay was to be believed, that wasn’t true. He had said he had been on medication before, had gone to therapy. In the tension of their confrontation, Justin hadn’t thought to ask what for. 

_Why were you hurting back then, Clay?_ Justin would probably never know now.

He also didn’t know why Clay had not threatened to tell his parents about the heroin. Maybe he hadn’t needed to threaten it; maybe it had been implied in there somewhere and Justin had missed it. It didn’t matter. Justin _should_ tell them himself. How could he ask Clay to do what he couldn't? 

Fuck it, maybe he would tell them. Maybe Justin’s debasement and shame would make Clay's own confession less daunting. It was doubtful. It was more likely that Clay would sit there and gloat. It wasn’t anything less than what Justin deserved. Still, the thought filled him with dread.

He feared that if he told Lainie and Matt about the heroin, they would postpone the adoption. They wouldn't kick him out—of that, at least, he was sure. But why would they willingly make him their son when he had lied to them for so long? When he was bringing drugs into their home? When he was making their real flesh-and-blood son complicit in it all?

Whatever happened, though, one thing was for sure: Justin wouldn't run, not anymore. Clay's implication that he still thought Justin capable of just taking off, it had struck him deeply. He wouldn't turn his back on Clay, even if Clay hated him or never talked to him again. At a minimum, Justin owed him that much, even if what he wanted was so much more. A real brother. A real family.

Justin pulled out his phone and sent Matt a text:

_I'm going 4 a walk. Will be home 4 meeting tonite._

He copied the text and sent it to Lainie as well. Their responses were almost immediate.

> **Lainie:** _Thank you, Justin. See you at 4 p.m. Do not be late!_
> 
> **Matt:** _Thanks for letting me know. Whatever is going on, we'll work it out. Love you, kid._

Justin felt tears pricking his eyes. Lainie, Matt, Clay. He did not deserve them, not a single fucking one of them.

 

* * *

 

After wandering the streets for an hour, Justin found himself in front of Alex’s house. It hadn’t been intentional. He had just unconsciously drifted in that direction.

He pulled out his phone.

> **Justin:** _u up?_
> 
> **Alex:** _why?_
> 
> **Justin:** _bc i’m outside ur house_
> 
> **Alex:** _k_

Justin took that as an invitation. Otherwise, he figured Alex would have texted him an equally concise ‘no’ in reply. Justin bypassed the front door and climbed up to Alex’s bedroom window. It wasn’t locked. Alex never locked it.

Justin dropped down from the window into Alex’s bedroom. He grinned when he saw Alex, who was watching him skeptically from his bed. He had an extreme case of bed hair and still looked half-asleep.

“Dude,” Alex said in greeting, “You could have come to the front door. My dad would have fed you breakfast.”

“I already ate,” Justin smoothly lied as he fell back on the bed beside Alex. He closed his eyes, tempted to nod off. 

“Look, dickhead,” Alex protested sleepily, levering himself up against the wall. “I don’t mind, but did you really come over here just to fall asleep on my bed?”

“I like your bed.” Justin opened his eyes and stuck out his lower lip, hoping to appear pathetic enough not to be kicked out.

Alex responded by giving him an insistent push. “You have a bed. This one’s mine.” He then bonked him lightly on the forehead with a closed fist. “Seriously, Justin. I know the Jensens didn’t kick you out, so why are you here?”

“You see a therapist, right?”

“Yeah, Zach does my PT. You know that.”

“No, not physical therapy, like a-, a psychologist? Psychiatrist?”

Alex eyed him warily. “Yeah, why?”

Justin pillowed his arm behind his head and looked at the ceiling. “Does it help?” he asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Why the fuck do you want to know?” Alex sounded defensive.

Justin couldn’t betray Clay’s confidence, but he wanted to make sure Alex realized that he wasn’t joking or playing games. “I think I should go to one,” he said softly. 

There was a lengthy pause. “Dude, are you okay?” Alex's voice was warm and comforting, like maple syrup poured over a thick stack of pancakes. Justin wanted to drown himself in it.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Justin said instinctually. _Shit._ He had forgotten that this wasn’t about him. It was about Clay. “Maybe I’m not okay,” Justin corrected.

“Oh.” Alex left it at that. 

Before things got too awkward, Justin plowed on. “I’ve been, like, seeing things that aren’t there. Talking to myself. Things like that.”

Alex laughed. “Isn’t that the whole point of doing drugs in the first place?”

“I’m not doing drugs!” Justin exclaimed, a little too defensively. _Fuck._ Alex always did hit straight on the mark.

“Geez, fine, don’t shit yourself. To answer your question, therapy’s a lot of bullshit.”

_Well, wasn’t that fucking great news._

Justin brought his hand out from behind his head and dug both his knuckles into his eye sockets. Now, instead of sleeping, he wanted to turn his head into Alex’s pillow and sob. That would probably get him kicked out for sure, so he forced his emotions back inside.

Alex clearly sensed the turn in his mood, because, surprisingly, his hand touched Justin’s hair, not gently but not unkindly either. “I lied to you,” Alex confessed. “It's a defense mechanism. The truth is that therapy's _mostly_ bullshit. But just because some of it’s bullshit doesn't mean it's _all_ bullshit.”

Justin let his hands fall onto the bed. He looked up at Alex, not wanting to ask him to continue but desperately hoping that he would.

Alex did. “My first therapist was a real prick. So was the second one. And the third. A lot of them are. But Janet—that’s my current psychologist—she’s pretty good. She basically tries to teach me ways to cope. She doesn't analyze me or pretend to listen. She’s always talking about how to 'reframe my negative thoughts,' which sounds simple, but it’s actually a lot of work.” Alex paused. 

Justin raised his eyebrows. “And–?”

Alex sighed. “It’s hard to explain, but when I have to go an appointment, I hate it. I can’t wait for it to end. But, afterwards, I don’t know, sometimes the stuff she says, it _does_ help. Being able to talk about shit with someone who’s not overly invested in your life—it can be nice. Which, I don’t know, probably makes me a pussy or something.”

Justin sat up, angry. “Why would you say that?” 

“Well, doesn’t it?” Alex asked. 

“No,” Justin insisted. “If getting help makes you a pussy, then shouldn't that be what you want to be? And what’s wrong with pussies anyway?” Justin winked at Alex.

“Fuck off, Justin."

Alex’s reply made Justin instantly think of Clay. Telling Justin to fuck off was one of Clay’s favorite phrases; it was practically a term of endearment at this point. _Clay_. A wave of nausea suddenly washed over him. He pulled his legs up, hugging them into his chest, and turned to look at Alex. “Would therapy have helped before you–, you know?” he ventured. 

“Shot myself? You can say it.”

“Okay,” Justin said. “Before you shot yourself, would it have helped?”

“Yeah, I think it would have.”

“And what if your parents had forced you to go? Like someone had told them how you were acting and they made you go against your will?”

Alex’s face scrunched. “Are the Jensens forcing you to go?”

“No,” Justin said immediately. ”It’s just a question.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Okay. Well, I don’t know. I would have been pretty pissed, I think. But, I don’t know… It would probably have been worth it. Maybe I would have seen another way to deal with all the pain and guilt I felt over Hannah. And maybe my body wouldn’t be so fucked up now, because I wouldn’t have put a fucking bullet in my brain.”

“I’m sorry, Alex."

“I hate when people say that, you know,” Alex huffed. “How is any of it your fault?”

“I should have seen something was up with you. I should have helped you.” It was hard not to have that regret weigh on his mind, not when he was facing the same issue with Clay.

“No, man, it’s not on you,” Alex countered. “But–, whatever’s going on with you, you can talk to me. If you want.” Alex’s face was so open that, for a second, Justin wanted to confess. Not about Clay or the gun or what he and Clay had done to cover for Tyler at the dance. He wanted to tell him about the heroin. About how he felt like he was digging his own grave. About how he feared he was turning into his mother.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “Thanks,” he told Alex instead, “But I don’t think I can.”

“Okay. Well, you should get help then. Don’t leave it until it becomes too much. That’s fucking irresponsible of you because people depend on you now. The Jensens. Clay.” Alex rested his hand on Justin’s shoulder. “And I care about you, asshole. So, don’t die, okay?” 

The warmth of Alex’s hand on his shoulder was gone too soon. “I’m going to get breakfast. Want some?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Justin watched Alex shuffle out of his bedroom. Then he wriggled under the covers and stretched himself out. He may have come here for Clay, but Alex’s words made him pause. _I care about you, asshole._ Out of everything Alex had said, that had resonated the most. Why hadn’t he thought to say something like that to Clay?

Instead, Justin had basically accused Clay of losing his mind. He had compared Clay to Bryce—of all people!—to try to get him to focus on his problems instead of Justin’s. Cornering someone in that way—telling them everything that was wrong and small about them—Justin knew what that felt like. It was shitty. Even if you did it to help, you couldn’t blame the person for lashing out. 

He had clearly approached Clay all wrong. Big fucking surprise. Strike four, Justin Foley. 

But… maybe not. There was still time to turn it around.  


 

* * *

  
**Clay** ****

**_Saturday Morning_ **

That morning, when Clay woke up, Tyler ( _not Tyler, not Tyler!_ ) was sitting on the edge of Justin’s bed. Justin was on his side, mouth open, breathing evenly, body still. Clay sat for ten minutes and watched as not-Tyler began rattling off the specs of each of his guns as he cleaned them. Occasionally, he would look down at Justin and then up at Clay meaningfully, his “gun” casually swinging toward Justin's oblivious sleeping form. 

Finally, Clay could not take it any longer. He got up and, with one wild swing of his arm, knocked two stacks of books off his desk so Justin would wake up. Justin glared at Clay for a good two minutes before slinking off to the bathroom. Justin probably thought Clay was just being a dick; Clay didn’t care. Because, yes, while he knew that an imaginary gun in the hand of a hallucinogenic Tyler Down was no real threat to Justin, it had still made his heart pound to see that gun barrel casually turn towards his brother’s body.

 _Brother._ In less than two weeks, that term would be set in stone. Legal. Binding. It seemed apropos to their relationship that they would be entering the adoption proceedings harboring a boatload of resentment and anger.

It wasn’t how Clay had wanted it to be.

Since the family meeting was not until 4 PM, and because he did not want to be stuck in the house trading barbs with Justin all day, he set off to Oakland while Justin was still in the shower. He could have asked Tony to come with him (Tony was always down for a road trip) or even invited Sheri along (“Hey Sheri, looks like our detoxing didn’t take. Are you up for round two?”). But, in the end, Clay figured this trip was something he had better do himself.

When Clay arrived at his destination, he sat staring at the sign in front of the brick building. 

_**Oakland Center For Addiction Treatment** _

As ridiculous as it might have seemed, it was Justin who had given him the idea to come. After yesterday’s tense family breakfast, Clay had driven to work, and, because he really hadn’t needed to be there that early, he had sat in the parking lot, itching to distract himself. He had pulled out his phone and tried to replicate what Justin might have googled about him. 

_“Talking with someone who is dead”_

_“Am I crazy if I hear voices?”_

_“Signs of psychosis”_  
  
After each search, he had chickened out before clicking any of the links. He wasn’t crazy! He didn’t have a brain tumor! Why the fuck would Justin even suggest that? Feeling petty, he had unashamedly turned to searching for heroin detox plans instead. _Yes, Justin, I am googling about your stupid ass._

And, by chance, that was how he had stumbled across the website for the Oakland Center For Addiction Treatment. Well, Clay _had_ wanted to be able to speak intelligently about Justin’s issues to his parents. What was better than doing research in person?

As Clay walked into the clinic, he was well aware that he was using Justin’s problems to distract himself from his own. Justin hadn’t been wrong about that accusation. (Maybe, Clay admitted, Justin hadn’t been wrong about other things either.) It was uncomfortable, but there it was. 

The center was not what Clay had expected. He didn’t know why he had expected it to be run-down or to look like a prison. It looked more like a community arts center crossed with a doctor’s waiting room. He stood patiently at the reception desk until the receptionist finished her phone call.

“How can I help you?” she asked him.

“Hi. I was wondering if I could speak to someone today?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

Clay bit his lip. _Oops._ Maybe he should have called first?

“No, I didn’t know I needed one.”

The receptionist humored him with a smile. “That’s okay. The staff is booked for today. But let me see if one of our volunteers is available to speak with you.”

“Great, thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, he met Anika, a middle-aged black woman, who was wearing a dressy flower print shirt and at least a dozen bright bracelets, which jangled when they shook hands. She immediately made him feel at ease. 

Anika took him to a small office overflowing with files, pamphlets, and plants. Following her gesture, Clay sat down on one of the two folding chairs before the desk. He was surprised when Anika did not go behind the desk but rather sat down right next to him, leaning forward with an open and warm expression.

“How can I help you?” 

Clay fidgeted. “Um, I’m looking for information about heroin recovery?”

“And how old are you, honey?”

“17. But it’s actually my… my friend who’s addicted to heroin.”

“Okay. And how old are they?”

“He’s 17.” Clay inwardly cringed, the whole “it’s not me, it’s my friend” spiel no doubt sounding like a deflection. 

“All right. Is the heroin a new problem for him or a continuing struggle?”

Clay pondered this question for a second before responding. “Well, he’s been clean twice before, so I’d say continuing?”

“Okay, how did he get clean before?”

“Well, the first time we detoxed him in my bedroom,” Clay answered without thinking. Crap. Now, she definitely thinks _I’m_ the heroin addict. 

He may have imagined it, but he thought he saw a hint of judgment on Anika’s face. If that was what it was, she quickly masked it before saying, “Generally, self-detoxing from any drug is never a good idea. With heroin, especially, going cold turkey is very dangerous. The body can go into shock, and that can lead to seizures and convulsions. There’s also a high risk of relapse… In fact, many overdoses occur after someone tries to detox and then goes back to the same amount of drugs they were using before. Do you understand?”

Anika had a soft manner, her voice soothing like a mother’s, but there was also a stern undercurrent of gentle scolding in there too. Clay felt a little ashamed. He had known some of what she had said (WebMD had had plenty of warnings and disclaimers), but, at the time, detoxing Justin had been a means to an end. The risks hadn’t seemed as important then. They did now.

“Yeah, I understand,” he answered. “It was kind of an emergency situation,” he finished lamely.

Anika patted his arm consolingly. “That’s okay, sweetie. That’s the past; we try to be forward-looking here. So, can you tell me what his home life is like?”

Clay floundered. That was a complicated question. “Well, um, his mother’s an addict and her boyfriend was a dealer, not of heroin, I don’t think. And…” Clay paused, unsure if he was crossing a line or not. “Well, I guess there was abuse? Maybe a lot of it, I’m not sure. He doesn’t really talk about it. But that was all a while ago. He ran away. That’s when he started using heroin… when he was homeless.” 

Anika, eyes soft, suddenly looked very concerned. Shit, Clay realized. If she does think I’m talking about myself, is she even going to let me leave after telling her all this? He tried to recover with, “It’s better now! He has a family that cares about him and they’re going to adopt him. He has a safe place to stay.”

The tension lines in Anika’s face relaxed somewhat. “That’s good. That’s very good. That can make all the difference.” She leaned back in her chair as if she sensed that she was making him feel uncomfortable. Her posture settled into something more like that of a friend rather than an authority figure. 

“I’m afraid all of what you said is very common,” Anika said. “Many individuals with addiction have trauma in their lives, whether that be in the past or the present. Drugs are often a way of coping with that trauma or a way of taking back some control over a life that has afforded them very little.”

Clay nodded. He didn’t know why, but he felt like he could be honest with Anika, even if she wouldn’t agree with what he said. “What I don’t understand is why he would go back to the heroin. His life is good now, you wouldn’t believe how good! I want to help him, but all I feel is anger. Is that terrible?”

Anika smiled sadly. “Believe me, I understand. My brother was an addict, you know? That’s why I volunteer here. He passed away 8 years ago.”

Clay’s eyes watered on reflex. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t feel bad for me, honey. It’s part of his legacy that I can help others who are struggling with what he struggled with. He was in the military, got injured, came home and pulled himself together. Then he lost his girlfriend in a car accident, and, again, he picked himself up from that, even started his own business… But the heroin was the one battle he couldn’t win. He fought, though, oh, did he fight it. He was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known.” 

Anika shook her head with a little laugh. “Sorry, I get a bit emotional sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” Clay said, not knowing how else to respond.

“I was angry at my brother for a long time,” Anika said. “But all that personal hurt and pain… It got in the way of taking proactive steps to help him recover. So, honey, it’s okay for you to be angry, but you should be angry at the drugs, at the environment, I think, and not the person." 

“And that’s where professionals can help. They aren’t so emotionally tangled up with the person who is struggling with addiction, and they can give the person coping strategies and alternatives without enabling them. It's not only about detoxing. There are so many more layers to it than that.”

Listening to Anika, Clay felt like he finally understood something critical about Justin. Before, Clay had always viewed the heroin as a weakness, as just another poor life choice. But he had never considered how Justin’s past—the poverty, the abuse, the homelessness, Bryce, the tapes—had primed Justin to find drugs not only desirable but also necessary for his very survival. A way of coping… Clay knew what it was like to need an outlet for your pain, even if it was self-destructive.

“What are the options for recovery?” Clay asked, needing to find a light at the end of this ordeal, a chance for something better.

“Well,” Anika said, “I’ll be honest to start and say this center may not be the best fit for your friend. There are many wonderful recovery centers in Oakland, some of which are more focused on youth than we are here. I’ll give you a list of possible facilities before you leave today. But the general concept is the same. There are outpatient treatment programs. There are also short- or long-term residential treatments available. Counseling and group therapy go hand in hand with a lot of treatment plans. In some cases, drugs such as Methadone can be used to help taper a person off heroin or stabilize their cravings while they go through behavioral therapy. What’s best for each person is really going to vary. Would your friend be available to come in with his family to talk over some options?”

Clay didn’t know how to answer that question. It all depended on how the meeting with his parents went tonight, he supposed. “It’s a possibility,” he hedged, trying not to look sheepish.

“All right.” Anika stood up, her bracelets playing a little tune in answer to her movement. She went to a file cabinet and began rifling through the folders. “Well, I’m going to give you a whole bunch of resources to take home with you today. Before that, though, I have some time. Would you like a tour of the facility? As I said, this may not be the best program for your friend, but you could talk to some people, get a better sense of what he’s facing.”

Clay readily agreed. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” 

It surprised him how much more at peace he felt at that moment. He had mostly used this trip as a distraction, planning to take what he had learned and use it as a weapon ( _See, Justin, I do know what I’m talking about!_ ). Instead, he actually felt free. 

Maybe it wasn’t Clay’s responsibility to get Justin clean. Justin needed professionals. Fuck, maybe Clay did too. He hadn’t chosen this fucked-up path for himself. He didn’t want it. And maybe there was a way off of it—if he had someone to guide him who knew what the fuck they were doing.

Once Anika had assembled a packet of information for him, she handed it to him in a folder. On the front, she had stuck a post-it note with her name and number. She had written, “Call me anytime” with a smiley face. God, Clay liked her. He wished he could get Justin to talk to her. She was a straight shooter, which he thought Justin would appreciate.

As they left the office, Clay took a chance and said, “Hey, Anika, before the tour, can I ask you another question?”

“Sure, sweetie.” 

“I have another friend. His, uh, his girlfriend passed away, and he kept seeing her after she died, like she was haunting him or something. And now he’s seeing other people, hearing voices. Is there help for something like that?”

Anika took her time before replying. “Well, honey, that’s not our focus here at the Center. But it does sound very concerning, and I would say your friend would benefit greatly from some professional help. How about I print you off some mental health contacts to include in your folder, okay? I believe that there’s nothing but hope for your friend’s recovery. For both of your friends’ recoveries.”

“Thanks.” Clay’s smile was genuine. It was nice not to have to force one.

Anika smiled back at him. “Your friends are very lucky to have you looking out for them, you know.”

A shiver of doubt passed through him. “I wouldn't be so sure about that,” he said. As if on cue, not-Tyler appeared on the other side of Anika, walking in lockstep with them. “Don’t sell yourself short, Clay,” he said. “You helped me, remember?”

Clay tore his gaze away. _Not in the way I should have._

Clay had fucked up with Tyler. He needed to do better by Justin. And maybe doing better meant acknowledging that he shouldn’t be the one to do it at all.

It didn’t mean he was giving up. Clay could still be a support beam, even if he couldn’t be the pillar itself.

 

* * *

 

When Clay arrived home that afternoon, the house seemed deserted. Both of his parents’ cars were gone. His mother was probably on her way home from work. He couldn’t fathom where his father had gone. Justin’s whereabouts were easier to guess; he was probably hiding out in their bedroom. Clay really hoped he wasn’t getting high. He may have found a newfound sympathy for Justin’s addiction, but that didn’t mean he wanted him to be out of touch with reality when they had to talk with their parents in an hour.

Clay was relieved to find Justin sitting on the couch in the living room. He looked sober (if Clay was even a good judge of that anymore), but he also looked like he was awaiting his execution. It was a relatable feeling.

Clay sat down beside him. Justin anxiously glanced at him but then started fiddling with the blanket that lay beside him on the couch. 

After a long minute, Justin spoke. “If you're going to give me the silent treatment, can you go do it somewhere else?”

“I'm not giving you the silent treatment,” Clay protested, which was admittedly a weak response given how he had been doing exactly that for the past few days.

“So if I say something, are you going to bite my head off?” Justin asked.

“I won't as long as you don't say anything stupid,” Clay replied.

“Yeah, well, that's kinda hard for me.”

Clay was going to laugh at that statement but stopped himself when he realized that Justin was being serious. _Shit._ This was not how he had wanted to start things off.

“You can say whatever you want, Justin.”

Justin didn’t answer. Typical. It looked like Clay was going to have to take the lead in this conversation. “Where’s Dad?” 

“Getting food,” Justin said. 

“Have you noticed that’s basically his go-to response in a crisis?” Clay joked.

Justin shrugged, unresponsive. Silence reigned once more. Clay had a strong urge to grab the blanket Justin was fiddling with—not because Justin’s nervous actions were annoying him, but rather because Clay’s hands equally yearned for a distraction.

While driving home from the addiction center, Clay had hashed out entire conversations, planned witty rejoinders and heartfelt pleas. But now that he was sitting beside Justin, he found it hard to begin. Well, no point being subtle about it.

“I went to a heroin clinic today.”

Justin almost bolted straight off the couch, but Clay flexed his leg, blocking his path. Justin sat back down resignedly.

“Just listen, Justin. I didn’t go for you. I’m not trying to railroad you into anything. I went because I wanted to learn. I think I get tunnel vision when it comes to the heroin; I don’t know why that is. Probably because I’m privileged, that’s what Tony would say. And he’s right. I didn’t understand what you’re going through, and, after today, well, I _still_ don’t. Maybe that’s the point: there’s no way I could.”

Clay’s eyes flicked to Justin. He seemed okay with what Clay had said so far. He was listening. He wasn’t leaping over the back of the couch to get away. It was a start.

“I learned a lot,” Clay continued, trying to keep his voice calm and level. “Mostly about how I fucked up by detoxing you without help. A woman at the clinic, Anika, she gave me a lot of resources and information, and I think some of it could be good for you.”

Clay now launched into one of his pre-planned speeches, trying to get all the details right. He explained about Methadone, relapse rates, Naloxone, opioid receptors… He was forced to stop mid-sentence when he realized that Justin was laughing at him.

“How is any of this funny, Justin?” Clay asked, offended.

“I'm sorry, Clay. But it's like you're presenting an oral report or something. ‘What You Need to Know About Heroin' by Clay Jensen. You're fucking ridiculous.” 

Clay didn’t know whether he should be pleased or irritated by Justin’s reaction. He settled for the former. It was just nice to hear Justin laugh again. “Okay, Justin, I was going more for like an impromptu persuasive speech, which I am totally rocking by the way, so you need to shut up and listen.” 

“Okay, geez.” Justin settled back against the cushions, arm slung over the back of the couch, pretending to be an attentive pupil.

Well, fine, Clay could maybe dial the facts back a little and get to the heart of what he wanted to say. “I get that the heroin is a coping mechanism for you and that you’re not actively trying to screw everything up. And I… I was a dumbass with the way I detoxed you. Or worse, maybe I was arrogant. I don’t know. Like, look what I can do! Got a heroin problem? Cured in 96 hours or less! I acted like I had done all the work… when really all I did was bully you into it.”

“You didn’t bully me into it,” Justin said.

Clay shook his head. “I feel like I kinda did. And that was shitty. I don’t mean to be that way, Justin. The way I act like I know what’s best… I know that it’s paternalistic as fuck. I haven’t lived through the fucked up things you have, and I’m sorry for treating you the way Bryce used to–”

“You didn’t!” Justin interjected. “Clay, fuck, I really fucked up when I said that. Like, yeah, sometimes you get controlling and it’s fucking annoying. But it’s different than Bryce. With Bryce... he wanted me to be dependent on him, to fall into line and prop him up. You… you actually care. You want me to get better _for me_ , and I see the difference. I do! That’s why I lied, I think. Because before, if I couldn’t get my life together, I had excuses: my mom, her fucking boyfriends, Bryce. Now, I don’t have any excuses. It means that if I fail, if I can’t get clean or get my shit together, it’s because of me. It proves that I’m worthless.” 

Justin’s head had dropped at these words. He had removed his arm from the back of the couch and was now cradling one hand in the other. He looked so much younger than he really was.

“Hey,” Clay consoled him. “Don’t _ever_ say that. You’re not worthless. The heroin… You just don’t have the tools to handle it by yourself. And I don’t either. But you have support, okay? I know you can do it. I’ll help you. My parents will. Zach. Alex. Jess.”

Justin gave him a small smile. “God, this is starting to sound really fucking cheesy. Like an intervention where everyone cries, or some shit?"

“Yes,” Clay confirmed. “Thank you! I can’t believe we’ve come to this.”

Justin laughed. “Yeah.”

Clay didn’t laugh. He remembered how Justin had accused him of deflecting, of putting the focus on fixing others to avoid looking at himself. This was the perfect moment to prove that it wasn’t true.

Clay poked Justin in the thigh. “What did you want to say to me on Wednesday? I’ll listen this time, I promise.”

Justin’s hand-wringing got more pronounced. Clay gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“I’m not good with words like you are,” Justin began. “But, Clay, all that shit I said earlier, I think it came out all wrong. I’m so afraid of fucking things up that I end up fucking them up even more. I think I backed you into a corner and, trust me, I know how fucked up that is when it happens in your own home.”

Justin paused. His open direct gaze made Clay uncomfortable, but he did not look away. Justin visibly swallowed before continuing.

“So, what I should have said was: I care about you. I know you say you're doing better. And maybe you are! But you don't know how things are going to hit you when shit hits the fan, which it seems to do for us pretty goddamn frequently. Even now, when things aren’t that bad, I still think you suffer sometimes. And I don't want to see you suffer.” 

Justin reached out his hand to touch Clay’s knee but then pulled back as if burnt. Justin’s eyes met his, as vulnerable as they had ever been. “I love you. That's what I should have said.”

Clay’s throat got tight with emotion. He had to wait to get his composure back before he could respond. “Thanks. And I'm sorry if I hurt you. You were trying to help me, and I freaked out.”

“It’s okay,” Justin said.

“It’s not okay!” Clay countered. “When you told me about the heroin, that was so fucking brave, and I should have handled it better. Everything’s just so weird, you know? This thing between us—this being brothers—it's so new, and I don't want it to end in another tragedy. I know how quickly things can end now, and the thought that you could–.” Clay couldn’t finish that sentence. A tear slid down the side of his nose; he hadn’t even felt it form. He wiped it away with a finger before he could taste the salt on his lips.

He knew what he should say next. Justin had said it first. He had said it so casually. Was that because he didn’t know the depth of what it meant? Or had the fact that Justin had never known unconditional familial love made saying it all the more profound? Either way, it shouldn’t be hard for Clay to get it out now because it was simple truth. 

“I love you, too. Okay?” Clay reached out his hand and touched Justin’s leg, intentionally mirroring Justin’s aborted action from earlier. Except Clay did not flinch. He held on.

Justin’s face was tear-streaked, but he smiled. “Yeah, okay.” 

The silence that followed was a comfortable one. The tension that had built between them over the past few days had been expended. Clay felt bone tired, like he had just fought a battle. In some ways, he had.

Eventually, Justin spoke. “I need help, Clay. With the heroin. I’ll tell your parents tonight.”

Clay nodded, trying not to overreact to that welcome news. He hesitated and then pushed himself to be just as fearless as Justin had been. “I’ll tell Mom and Dad about the gun,” he said. “And about seeing Hannah… and Tyler.” 

Seeing Justin’s puzzled face, Clay explained, “I don’t see Hannah anymore. She’s gone. But, sometimes, I see Tyler.” He glanced nervously at Justin’s face. To his relief, Justin nodded, accepting it for what it was, inviting him to continue. “Okay.” 

Clay knew he didn’t have to share more, but it felt good to say it out loud. “He wants me to help him get revenge. To take justice into our own hands at Liberty.” 

“Fuck, Clay,” Justin whispered. “That’s intense.”

“Yeah,” Clay agreed. Well, he might as well put it all out there. “Tyler… well, uh, not Tyler… the hallucination of Tyler may have suggested that I kill you yesterday. Are you sure you still want to be my brother?”

Oddly, Justin smiled. “What if I told you that last year I suggested we kill you to shut you up? You sure _you_ still want to be _my_ brother?”

Clay found that hilarious. “That actually does not surprise me. So, yeah, I’m sure. What’s a little planned homicide between brothers, right?

Justin playfully shoved him. “We’re so fucked up.”

“Tell me about it.” He shoved Justin back, laughing. This was more familiar, the teasing, the easiness between them. A knot unfurled in his stomach. 

Then, Clay heard a car door close outside. “Oh God,” he moaned. “Mom and Dad have no idea what’s coming. They probably think we're fighting over a video game or a girl or something.”

Justin smirked. “In what fucking universe would you and I be fighting over a girl?"

“Okay,” Clay said. “I'm going to choose not to take that as an insult.”

The front door opened and his dad’s voice rang out. “Boys, you home? I’ve got groceries.”

Clay exchanged a look with Justin, equal parts trepidation and support.

“It’ll be okay,” Justin reassured. 

“I know,” Clay replied. Together, they went out to help with the groceries. His dad looked pleased to see them side-by-side. He clapped Justin on the back and then pulled Clay into a one-armed embrace. 

“You boys ready to talk?” he asked as he popped the trunk of his Prius. “Your mother should be home any time now.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah, we’re ready.”

 

* * *

 

The family meeting went down about how Clay had expected. There was bafflement, then anger, then panic, and finally tears. His father’s dinner plans went by the wayside. His mother, at some point, pulled out a legal pad and began making plans of her own. By the end of the night, Clay wanted to curl up in bed and sleep for a week. Justin clearly felt the same way. If only they could.

When Clay awoke the next morning, his mother was standing in the open bedroom doorway, anxiously watching them as they slept. After breakfast, she made Justin surrender whatever drugs, needles, and money he had in the house. Then she and his father meticulously searched their bedroom while Clay and Justin stood off to the side and watched. Clay didn’t have the energy left to protest the invasion of his privacy. Justin’s facial expression said it all: _Clay, what the fuck did I do?_

Unlike Justin, Clay had anticipated the whirlwind that was to come. His father took a week’s leave from work (“Classes don’t start for another two weeks; they won’t even miss me!"). His mother managed to get three days off, which she took full advantage of. She made an appointment for Clay to get evaluated by a psychiatrist. She made appointments at three different addiction clinics in order to shop around for the best outpatient program for Justin. Then there was the therapy. Therapy for Justin, therapy for Clay, family counseling for all four of them. 

Mandatory dinners had been added to the mandatory breakfasts. Stricter curfews were imposed, and their phones were subject to random seizure. Houseguests now had to be approved ahead of time. It was extreme parenting in action. Clay wasn’t shocked by any of it. His parents tended to overcompensate. When they felt that they had made a mistake, they overcorrected in the opposite direction, veering from starboard to port, and thus, somehow, still missed the mark. 

Clay found that being distracted and busy actually kept him from wallowing. He certainly did not have the time to stay curled up in bed any longer, not between work, therapy sessions, family counseling, school, and the new forced family bonding time that had snuck its way onto the schedule. Tyler’s hallucination was still around, but at least it was not showing up as often as it had. There was new medication to take, and while therapy sucked ass, Clay had committed to it, and he couldn’t break that promise. 

Justin, by contrast, often looked overwhelmed, like a deer in the headlights. Clay wondered if all this added stress was doing more harm than good in his case. He probably had never had anyone in his life throw so much concern and attention his way. Clay hoped that if all the bustle was truly too much for Justin, Justin would let them know. Even if he didn’t, Clay knew that things would eventually simmer down. They would settle into a new normal.

His parents were in overkill mode at the moment. But Clay had to admit that maybe overkill in their cases was warranted. He couldn’t fault his parents’ throw-everything-at-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks approach if what ended up sticking saved the life of someone he cared about. 

If it saved him.

He had a lot to live for. So did Justin. And although Clay didn’t know if happiness could be found on the other side of healing—for him or for Justin—he wanted _both_ of them to give everything they fucking had in order to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last three chapters kicked my butt, but I'm glad I wrote them. I think something fluffy is due after all this angst.
> 
> Thanks for all your wonderful comments and support! You all make it worth it! :)))


	11. Cadeaux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin had never imagined that a time would come when the biggest worry of his week was what to get Clay Jensen for his 18th birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Beginning of October
> 
> Pairings: Clay/Sheri
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, **11** , 19, 21, 22, 23

“Justin!” 

Justin closed his locker, turned, and greeted Sheri with a hug. “Hey, Sheri.”

“So,” she began excitedly, leaning up against the row of lockers. “I’ve got everything ready to go for the cupcakes on Friday. I was going to do half chocolate and half vanilla. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her. “Clay loves chocolate, you know?”

“Shut up, Justin.” Sheri ducked her head, brushing the comment off, but Justin could tell she was secretly pleased. When would Clay get the fucking balls to ask her out already? She was clearly interested, despite being way out of Clay’s league. 

“Okay, cool,” Sheri said. “I also bought him this really cute Alien Killer Robots hoodie that I found online.”

Justin froze. “Wait. I thought we weren’t getting gifts?”

Sheri rolled her eyes. “Well, yeah, for everyone else maybe. But I wanted to get him something special.” She looped her arm through Justin’s as they began to walk to English class. “What did you get him?”

“Nothing. I thought the party was the gift!”

Sheri smacked him playfully. “Boy, seriously? He’s your brother now. You need to step it up.”

_Shit._

 

* * *

 

Justin didn’t hear a word the teacher said in English class. Slouched at his desk, head on his hand, his mind kept circling back to what Sheri had said. _You need to step it up._ How the fuck was he supposed to pick out a birthday gift for Clay? Compared to every other obstacle he had faced in the last year, this should be nothing. But it wasn’t like he had a lot of experience in gift giving. Or receiving. 

The only person who had regularly bought him birthday gifts in the past was Bryce. His gifts were usually flashy, expensive demonstrations of his family’s excessive wealth. A diamond watch — which Justin had pawned to pay the back rent they owed on their apartment. Designer sneakers — which Justin had outgrown in a year. He had sold them secondhand in order to keep their electricity and water turned on, giving his mother a reprieve from working more double shifts. He didn’t have the money to buy Clay anything fancy like that, and, even if he did, bling wasn’t exactly Clay’s style. 

After the bell rang, Justin rushed across the hall to Alex’s chemistry class. Alex was at his desk, preparing to load his books into his backpack. Although he didn’t need his cane anymore, he still struggled to carry both his backpack and his books while he walked (it had something to do with uneven weight distribution, but fuck if Justin understood it). Alex, therefore, had to load everything into his backpack before walking to his next class. Unless, of course, Zach was around. Or Justin. 

Justin unceremoniously scooped up Alex’s books. “Walk with me?” he asked as a greeting. They had history together next period, so it wasn’t that outlandish a request.

“Okay,” Alex said with a smile, zipping up his backpack and slinging it up to his shoulder. Justin helped him pull it over his other shoulder. “But I need to stop by my locker to switch out my books first.”

“Sure,” Justin agreed easily. As they left the classroom, Justin moved to the outside, herding Alex closer to the lockers so that Alex would be protected from the brunt of the bustling hallway. It wasn’t that effective of a shield, especially if Monty and his crew showed up to harass them, but it made Justin feel better all the same. 

“Hey, what should I get Clay for his birthday?” he asked as they walked.

“I thought we were doing a party and movie night at your house?”

Justin pressed his lips together. “Yeah, but everyone else is more involved in that than I am. Zach’s getting the card. Sheri’s bringing cupcakes. Jess is in charge of balloons. Tony’s on music duty. Lainie and Matt are getting snacks. I’m… I’m showing up.”

“The party was your idea in the first place," Alex said. “That counts for a lot.”

Justin had thought the same until he had talked to Sheri. Now it seemed pretty pathetic. “Sheri might have implied that being Clay’s brother means that something more is expected, gift-wise I mean.”

Alex shrugged. “Okay… But why are you asking _me_ what to get him?”

“Well, I thought since you have a brother…?”

Alex laughed dryly. “I haven’t bought Peter a gift since I was ten. We just give each other money.”

“Oh,” Justin said, disappointed. “Isn’t that kinda lazy, Standall?”

“Yeah,” Alex admitted. “But that's the whole beauty of it. He can go buy what he really wants and then I get all the credit for getting him the perfect gift.”

It was an appealing solution. It required no thought or effort. It was also pretty foolproof. No way he could fuck it up, that was for sure. All the same, though, his first time celebrating Clay’s birthday seemed to merit something more meaningful than throwing a wad of cash at him. 

It hadn’t even been two months since the adoption, and Justin still felt like he was walking across a frozen river when it came to Clay. One false step… and CRACK, he would be plunged into the icy depths. He didn’t think that feeling would ever go away. Maybe that’s what it meant to have a family: the constant fear of never quite being worthy of the love you were given.

He readjusted his grip on Alex’s textbooks, realizing with dismay that his palms were sweaty. Of all the things to get anxious about! It wasn’t like Clay was anticipating a gift from him or anything. But that was exactly why it was so important that Justin make a good choice. He didn’t want to meet anyone’s lowest expectations anymore. He wanted to exceed them.

At his side, Alex sighed heavily. “Justin, if you’re that worried about it, you should ask Zach. He’s like the epitome of a good brother.” 

It was an excellent idea. In thanks, Justin slung his free arm around Alex’s shoulder in a half hug, throwing Alex’s weight off in the process and almost toppling them both forward onto the two small freshmen walking in front of them. Justin pivoted and flexed his thigh muscles to maintain his balance, quickly dropping Alex’s textbooks in order to use both his hands to center Alex’s weight.

“Fuck, Justin!” Alex wobbled unsteadily and then stilled. When it was clear that he was stable, Justin let go of him.

“Sorry.” Justin bent down to pick up the textbooks he had dropped. 

Alex scowled at him. “A little warning next time before you get so affectionate. I’m not one of your fucking jocks. Jesus.”

“Okay! Fair warning: I'm in an affectionate mood."

"Oh." Alex's cheeks were tinted red, probably from the unexpected exertion. "I don't mind." Once again, they began to make their way down the hallway, but this time Alex walked a pace closer to Justin than he had before, and he didn't say anything about Justin's hand on his arm.

 

* * *

 

At basketball practice that afternoon, as they were getting changed in the locker room, Justin prodded Zach for gift ideas.

“Well,” Zach said, “I get May a jigsaw puzzle every year. You know, one of those 1000 piece monstrosities with hardly any contrast or variation. She’s crazy about them. We work on it together for the next few months. It’s kinda our thing.”

Justin tried to imagine working on a puzzle with Clay. There was no way that would go well. Clay was an uptight control freak. Justin preferred to fly by the seat of his pants. A jigsaw puzzle would no doubt end in a fight between them, probably one in which the puzzle pieces ended up all over the room. It would be a pain in the ass to clean up.

“Don’t think that would work for us,” he told Zach.

“Okay, well, what do you two have in common?”

“Comic books?”

“Perfect! Get him a comic book.” Zach removed his t-shirt from his duffel bag and began to pull on his jersey.

“Clay's really particular about his comics though,” Justin complained as he ruffled through his bag looking for his basketball shorts. “There are all these different alternate universes and mirror universes and stuff and he likes some of them and not others. If I got him the wrong one, he would probably freak the fuck out. Because, apparently, I am supposed to know what's good and what's crap based on an offhand comment he says to me one time…”

Zach laughed and bent down to tie his shoes. “Okay, what else do you have in common then?”

Justin sighed. He really didn’t have all that much in common with Clay. Hardly anything in fact. They shared a bedroom and a bathroom and parents. Other than that… How _did_ they manage to get along so well? It was a giant fucking mystery, one that Justin did not want to examine too closely. It had come to mean too much to him to fuck it up with too much thinking.

“We both like girls?” he concluded weakly, sitting down to remove his shoes. “I could get him a box of condoms?”

Zach grimaced. “Uh, no, don't do that. That’s weird, man.”

“Yeah.” 

As they made their way onto the court, Justin pushed his disappointment aside and focused on his teammates, on the drills, on the singular thrill of an orange ball soaring through the air and falling perfectly through an anchored hoop.

 

* * *

 

> **Justin:** _clay + bd ideas?_
> 
> **Jess:** _bd????? Is that bro slang for something?_
> 
> **Justin:** _birthday. i need a gift idea_
> 
> **Jess:** _idk ask him_
> 
> **Justin:** _i cant just ask_
> 
> **Jess:** _this is going to blow your mind but it’s okay for guys to communicate like actual human beings_
> 
> **Justin:** _but he won't tell me. i know him_
> 
> **Jess:** _then go with food. food is always a good bet :)_

It was a decent suggestion. Justin loved food. _He_ would love to get food as a gift. Any food. Breakfast, lunch, dinner… It wasn’t that long ago that they weren’t always guaranteed. But he knew that Clay didn’t see food quite the same way, and while Clay did have a sweet tooth, he also had plenty of access to candy at home. 

Justin guessed he could buy Clay some Tootsie Rolls or chocolate hearts or some such shit as a last resort.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, Justin left an hour early to pick up Clay from his weekly therapy session. He drove to Tony’s house. As was often the case, he found Tony in his driveway with the hood of his car popped. He was covered in grease, an open toolbox beside him.

“Hey, Tony.”

“Hey,” Tony greeted. “You’re not here to ruin my good mood are you?”

“No, why?” Justin asked, insulted.

“There’s no impending crisis?”

“No.”

“No fire to put out?”

“No.”

“No one’s been bodily injured?”

“You’re about to be,” Justin snapped.

Tony smiled. “Okay, good.” He wiped his hands on a rag and turned to Justin. “No harm meant. It’s just a knee-jerk reaction. You don’t often stop by my house alone, and you and Clay are both trouble magnets. You can’t blame me for presuming.”

While Tony worked on his car, Justin explained about his gift dilemma, including all the bad suggestions he had considered thus far. Tony, not content to merely listen, put Justin to work handing him various tools as he asked for them. Occasionally, he would grunt in response to something Justin said. Mostly, he was silent.

“So, are you getting him a gift?” Justin finally pressed.

“Yes. I got him an awesome gift. And no, I am not telling you what it is.”

“C’mon, Tony!”

Tony firmly shook his head. “Why would my gift to Clay be a good idea for you? We have completely different relationships with him. I have no clue what you should get him. ¿Comprendes?”

“But you’re his best friend!”

“So? You’re his brother.”

Justin looked away from Tony. It was too hard to concede that he didn’t know Clay well enough to even pick out a decent gift for him. 

Tony tapped him lightly on the arm with a wrench. Justin took it and placed it back in the toolbox. 

“Look, Justin,” Tony said, “A good gift is not about the gift itself. It’s the meaning behind it. You don’t have to buy him anything fancy. Heck, you don’t have to buy him anything at all. Write him a card. Spend time doing something he likes to do. Do you get what I’m saying? ‘Cuz I really don’t have time for this nonsense.” Smiling slightly, Tony turned back to his car.

“Yeah, I get it." _I get that you're an asshole for not helping me out. Don't you fucking want Clay to be happy?_

“You know anything about cars?” Tony asked him.

“Yeah, I’m a pretty good driver,” Justin said distractedly.

“No, like engines, carburetors, belts, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, no,” Justin admitted. 

“Do you want to learn? Clay’s hopeless, but I think it'd be in your wheelhouse.”

Justin suspected Tony was taking pity on him, but he _was_ actually interested in learning. He had always imagined what it would be like to work on a car with his dad… His mother had claimed that he was a mechanic. It was probably a lie. She had also said that he was a good man, and good men didn’t abandon their pregnant girlfriends in the middle of the night. 

“Yeah, I'd like that." Justin studied Tony speculatively. _Maybe you're not an asshole. Not all of the time. Only sometimes. Once in a while._

Tony waved his hand, inviting Justin to step beside him and look down at the car’s inners. “I’ll start with the basics.” Tony pointed at a part. “This is the starting motor.” He moved his finger to another area. “This is the starting motor relay. And this beauty, this is the alternator…”

 

* * *

 

When Justin woke up on Friday, he rolled out of bed and started down the hallway to the bathroom. He was about to start the water running for a shower when he remembered what day it was. 

He ran back down the hall and since Clay was still sleeping, he jumped on his bed to wake him up. He considered wrestling him off the bed but decided that was maybe too much enthusiasm this early in the morning. 

“Justin, what are you doing?” Clay mumbled sleepily, pushing weakly at him with his arms. Justin didn’t budge.

“Happy birthday, dumbass.” Justin playfully mussed up Clay’s hair, making it stick out in even more extreme angles. “Get up. You can have first shower.”

Justin hopped off the bed. Clay groaned, but he had swung his legs to the side of the bed by the time Justin reached the door.

Breakfast that morning was the bomb. Matt layered pancakes into a mock birthday cake complete with candles and sprinkles. Lainie had a card and balloons ready at Clay’s chair. Clay, who was far from a morning person, instantly cheered up once he saw the effort his parents had made.

When they arrived at school, they stopped off at Clay’s locker, which was decorated with streamers, comic book wrapping paper, and balloons. Sheri, who had done the decorating, was waiting by the locker nervously. Clay gave her an enthusiastic hug, and Justin left the two of them to have their private moment. Before he turned the corner, he glanced back to see them leaning in towards one another, laughing, faces inches apart. 

It was about fucking time.

 

* * *

 

After school, Justin drove the Prius home, while Clay, sitting in the passenger seat, delicately folded the comic book wrapping paper that had decorated his locker that morning. Justin had no doubt it would end up on the wall of their bedroom at some point. Justin magnanimously refrained from teasing him about it. On any other day, he wouldn’t have held back. 

Matt and Lainie greeted them at the front door. They had both taken off work early just to be there at the exact time when Clay had been born, 4:15 in the afternoon. It was so fucking cheesy and over the top, like many of the things the Jensens did. (It was a nice gesture all the same.)

As Matt and Lainie smothered Clay in numerous hugs, Clay vocally expressed his displeasure. His parents didn’t care and carried on anyway. Justin stood awkwardly on the periphery and watched. In moments like this one, he felt like an outsider; as a late addition to the family, he was alienated from the years of shared memories. He was reluctant to join in... but he pathetically hoped that he would be invited to do so anyway.

A sudden deep longing for his own mother overwhelmed him. Her thin frame, her long brown hair, her tired eyes... the scent of lavender mixed with cigarette smoke... a soft soprano voice singing him a lullaby. He hoped she wasn't dead.

Lainie kissed Clay’s cheek and then held his face in her hands. “I can’t believe you’re an adult now.” She let him go with a little sad shake of her head. “I feel so old.” 

“You and me both,” Matt put in. “Seems like it was yesterday that you were still in diapers. Lainie, remember that time he sprayed you full in the face when you were changing him?”

“Oh my god, Dad, seriously?” Clay backed away from his parents, fending them off with a hand.

Justin laughed. Clay bristled.

“All right, all right,” Matt relented. “We’ll leave it at this: We couldn’t be more proud of the man you’ve become, son. We love you.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” Clay willingly accepted a hug this time, holding on for longer than he had allowed before.

“Before we go,” Lainie said moving off into the living room, “We wanted to give you your presents.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Clay asked, puzzled. Justin followed the family as they changed rooms.

“Your mother and I are going out for dinner and a movie. We’ll be back late, so you can have the house to yourselves.”

Clay shot Justin a bewildered glance as they walked into the kitchen. “Your present to me is alone time with Justin? I get that every night.” He scratched his chin. “Maybe too much of it.”

“Hey!” Justin complained, stepping up beside Clay.

Clay's lips turned upward in a small smile. Well, to be honest, Justin was secretly glad that it wouldn’t be just him and Clay alone on his birthday either. How sad and depressing that would be.

Clay’s presents were sitting on the kitchen table. First, there was a set of Bluetooth headphones. (Clay already had a pair; supposedly these were nicer). Then, Lainie gave him some nerdy robot construction kit. (Justin should have thought of something robot-related when he was searching for gift ideas. It was no secret that Clay liked that shit; for fuck’s sake, robots were all over their bedroom.)

Finally, Matt gave Clay tickets to some science fiction convention that he had been talking about for months. Justin was surprised to see that Matt had gotten a ticket for Justin as well. Given how much Clay had talked the convention up, Justin was actually a little curious to see exactly what went on at one. If nothing else, it would give him good ammunition to tease Clay with later.

While Clay thanked his parents, Justin unzipped his backpack and removed the small wrapped box. He hadn’t known the proper time to give it to Clay but now seemed as good a time as any. Better now than in front of all their friends.

Justin dropped the box unceremoniously in front of Clay and then fiddled with Clay’s robot kit while Clay unwrapped the box. He didn’t want to make it seem like this was a big deal in case it did not go off well. _It’s the thought that counts._ Isn’t that what everyone said about gifts anyway?

When Clay pulled out the silk tie from the gift box, he didn’t say anything. He ran his fingers up and down the burgundy fabric. Justin nervously looked at his face, trying to gauge his reaction. His gift wasn’t anything special, but it _was_ meaningful. At least he hoped it was. He had spent two hours in the store, debating tie styles and colors until a salesman had offered to help him. The man had suggested a strong burgundy color for a “balanced and mature look.” That description had seemed to suit Clay. 

“A classic, timeless gift,” Matt said approvingly.

Lainie came around to stare over Clay’s shoulder at the tie. She smiled softly. “Why do I get the sense that there’s a story behind this gift?”

“There is,” Clay said. He looked up at Justin. “Thanks, man. I love it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clay walked over to him and wrapped his arms around him. Justin gripped the back of Clay’s neck lightly, trying to communicate through touch something like, _I love you, and I'll always look out for you_. The second, equally important message: _Being your brother is stressful as fuck._ Clay clapped him on the back, which probably meant, _Release me._ Which was fine. Whatever.

He let Clay go, and the doorbell rang. 

“I wonder who that could be?” Matt asked theatrically.

Justin ran to get the door, Clay trailing in his wake. Soon all their friends were bursting into the room. Zach, Alex, Sheri, Jess, Tony, Caleb. “Happy birthday!” they chorused as they flooded in.

“What?” Clay laughed, looking between each of them in shock. “Didn’t I say not to do anything for my birthday?”

“No,” Jess countered. She was holding a bundle of birthday balloons in one hand and a bag filled with party supplies in the other. “You said no making a big deal out of it at school.”

“This isn’t school,” Tony said, giving Clay a friendly slap on the cheek, before heading off with Caleb to greet Matt and Lainie.

“It was all Justin’s idea,” Sheri put in, her dark eyes warmly lingering on Clay’s face.

Justin shook his head emphatically. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was,” Alex said, coming to stand beside Justin. “Blame him, not us.”

Clay laughed happily. “Hey, I’m not complaining.” His face, when he looked at Justin, was carefree—the way it should always be. “It’ll be fun.”

Justin nodded, relieved. Maybe he should help Clay out and get the ball rolling in the romance department. “Sheri brought cupcakes. She made them from scratch. For you. Maybe you should show her where to put them?” He jerked his head meaningfully in Sheri’s direction. She was still holding the large container, as well as a large gift bag. 

“Oh.” Clay rushed over to take the container, almost fumbling it in the hand-over.

“Half are chocolate, half are vanilla,” Sheri said smoothly, unnecessarily pointing out which were which through the clear lid.

“Chocolate!” Clay gushed. “That’s my favorite!” He then stared stupidly at Sheri for a long minute before awkwardly turning and heading to the kitchen with the container of cupcakes. Sheri, after a pause, followed him.

Justin gave an exasperated sigh. _What an idiot._ He could only do so much. 

“Come on, Alex. Let’s go order the pizza. Zach, Jess, what toppings do you guys want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Clay’s birthday being in October has no basis in anything in canon.
> 
> • This chapter wasn’t quite the fluff I promised, but it's still quite lighthearted for my angst-loving self. 
> 
> • Thanks so much!!!


	12. Amber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest arrives at the house. Clay is outraged. Justin is thrown for a loop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: End of September, Post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: References to past child abuse and neglect, some offensive language.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, **12** , 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Clay hummed happily to himself. The house was deserted, which was a rare occurrence these days. Justin was constantly inviting people over to the house, often taking over their bedroom with his many guests. They were loud and rambunctious, gross and stupid. And as much as he sometimes wished it were so, Clay wasn't excluded from the hubbub. Justin enthusiastically shared everything he had and that included his friends. As a result, Clay's social circle had tripled in size, which might have been okay— _if_ he hadn't had to stumble over the new acquaintances on the way to his bathroom at 4 fucking a.m.

It was nice to have a quiet afternoon, and he had decided to take full advantage of it. Taking advantage meant binge-watching the latest episodes of The Expanse and eating two packages of microwave popcorn. There was no one (a.k.a. his mother) to complain about him ruining his dinner. No one (a.k.a. Justin) to ask annoying questions about the mechanics of simulated gravity or space sex.

Because he was fucking cursed, he had barely started the second episode when the doorbell interrupted him. Clay decided to ignore it. The person at the door, however, would not be ignored and kept pressing on the chime insistently.

“God damn it.” Clay switched off the TV and trundled to the door. When he opened it, he found a tired woman standing on their porch. He didn’t recognize her, but she looked vaguely familiar. There was no car on the street or in the driveway, so maybe she was neighbor from down the block. Doubtful. She had dark circles under her eyes, a slumped posture, and dirty clothes and hair.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Justin.” She sounded disgruntled.

A vague horror struck Clay. Had Justin had a fling with this woman? God, she was at least 10 years older than they were. _Justin, please tell me you didn’t._ Clay couldn’t exclude it from the realm of possibilities. While she didn’t seem Justin’s type, and it wasn’t like Justin had trouble finding dates at Liberty, he sometimes seemed to seek out sex as a substitute for drugs. And there had been all those comments about MILFs… Clay had never quite figured out if Justin had been joking about that or not.

 _Oh, crap._ What if this woman had been one of Justin’s drug dealers? Did he owe her money?

Why had Clay even answered the door? Maybe he should pretend to not know who Justin was. That was probably not a good strategy given that she obviously knew Justin lived here.

“He’s not home right now,” Clay said.

“Can I come in and wait then?”

“Uh…”

“My son usually gets a ride with you after school, right?”

His brain caught up with him. “Wait, are you… are you Justin’s mother?” 

She couldn’t be. After all this time, all the fruitless efforts by his mother to find Amber Foley, surely she wouldn’t just drop by their house on a lazy Thursday afternoon like it was nothing.

“Yeah, he’s my son, so can I come in or not?” 

Clay was stupefied. Mechanically, he opened the door, and Amber stepped into the foyer. She didn’t wait for him to lead her in further but instead continued inside, wiping her boots on the rug. _Well, make yourself at home then._

“So, where’s Justin?” she asked as he closed the door. 

Clay hesitated. Justin was at his one-month progress report meeting at the substance abuse clinic. Their parents had picked him up early from school to attend with him and lay out a strategy for the coming month. Clay didn’t even know if Amber was aware of Justin’s heroin addiction. If not, it wasn’t his place to expose that secret. So, playing it safe, he simply said, “He’s at a meeting with my parents. It’s… school-related.”

Amber nodded distractedly. She didn’t seem all that interested in the details. Clay didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated by that fact.

“When will he be back?”

“Probably in a half hour or so.” He invited her to walk towards the living room with a wave of his hand.

Amber started walking but stopped abruptly at the family photo hanging on the wall. It had all four of them: his parents, himself, and Justin—all dressed in color-coordinated outfits and strategically posed at the local pier, looking like a magazine advert for the All-American Middle-Class Family of Upstanding Virtue™. His father had been so adamant that they get those photographs done after the adoption. He wouldn’t accept a candid amateur shoot; he had insisted on a professional photographer. Clay had initially been resistant. All that fake, forced cheerfulness… But then Justin had been so enthusiastic and emotional about the whole experience that Clay had caved and willingly given himself over to being prodded and arranged like a life-sized doll. 

Amber brought her hand up and reverently stroked the glass over Justin’s image. Clay shifted awkwardly. He almost felt the need to justify Justin’s presence in the photo. _‘Look, we didn’t steal your son or anything. My parents are very sentimental. It’s a picture, that’s all.’_

But, at the same time, Clay felt an equal need to rub it in Amber Foley’s face. _‘It’s true. Your son found a new family. Sorry, not sorry.’_

When Amber turned to look at him, though, she smiled. It seemed genuine enough, which made Clay feel a little guilty.

“You’re Justin’s friend?”

“Yeah." Clay paused. “Well, more than just his friend. I’m… I’m his broth–, I’m his adoptive brother.”

Amber rocked backward on her heels. “Oh, I thought–. Your parents _adopted_ him?”

“Yeah, they did. About a month ago.”

“Can they do that?”

“They already kind of did.” Clay scratched his cheek. How had he gotten stuck in this uncomfortable tête-à-tête? For all he knew, Justin’s mother wasn’t aware that she had lost parental rights. Although how she thought nothing would have changed after all these months… It was mind-boggling. Clay was trying his hardest to be sensitive here, although he wasn’t really sure she deserved it. He would have to bear it for Justin’s sake. God, why couldn’t his mother have been home? She was built for moments like this.

Amber studied him for a second, nodded, and then turned and walked into the living room. She immediately sat down on their couch, chewing on the fingernails of her left hand, her right hand fidgeting with the couch cushions. Clay was all too familiar with the nervous tics and tremors of addiction. The similarity in her movements to how Justin had acted when he had been using heroin was uncanny. 

Amber was clearly still an active drug addict. Great. And Clay had freely welcomed her into their home on the day of Justin’s one-month recovery meeting. If she had brought any drugs with her, and Justin found out… Clay pushed the thought away.

“Uh, do you want something to drink?” Clay offered weakly.

Amber eyed him. “You got a beer?” 

Clay laughed and then realized that she wasn't joking. “No,” he said carefully. “We don’t keep alcohol in the house.” It was a recent development. His parents used to have a wine rack in the kitchen and his father was no stranger to an occasional beer now and then, but ever since Justin’s heroin relapse, both had surreptitiously disappeared. “Soda?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

“Any preference?”

“A Coke would be nice.”

“Got it.” Clay walked into the kitchen and pulled a can out of the fridge. When he returned, he found Amber wandering around the room. He watched for a minute as she ran her hands along the mantel, adjusting various knick-knacks. She picked up the green vase, turned it upside down and studied it listlessly. Even though it was just a cheap knock-off that his mom had bought at a thrift store, Clay had a strong desire to pull the vase out of her hands. He didn’t like the speculative way she was looking at it, like she was casing their belongings.

Clay cleared his throat loudly. Amber didn’t startle (she could at least have had the dignity to look guilty for… whatever it was she was doing). She placed the vase back, off-center, and then came forward to take the soda from Clay’s outstretched hand.

Clay realized that he hadn’t even introduced himself, which was probably at least half as rude as nosing around a stranger’s possessions after they had invited you into their home. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t tell you–, I’m Clay. Clay Jensen.”

Amber popped the tab on the Coke. “Amber.” After taking a long drink, she bluntly asked, “Did social services pay your parents to adopt Justin?”

“Um… no.”

“Does my son pay rent?” 

“No, he doesn’t pay rent.” 

Amber huffed. “Well, I guess your parents can afford it. Not exactly hurting for money, are they?” She rolled her head, including the entire house in her disdain.

This had now left uncomfortable territory and was deeply in the realm of insulting. Clay clenched his fists, half prepared to ask her to go and wait out on the porch. Unfortunately, she wasn’t quite finished.

“Your father isn’t some kind of pervert, is he? Letting Justin stay in exchange for sex?”

“Are you fucking serious?!” Clay unconsciously stepped forward but then held himself back with every ounce of self-restraint he had. How exactly would he explain to Justin that he had clocked his mother in the face? Well, it would probably be easier than explaining to his father that Justin’s mother had accused him of exchanging shelter for sexual favors. 

Amber looked at him with amusement. “Geez, calm down. I just don’t understand why anyone would take in a stranger’s kid without getting anything out of it.”

“Maybe because my parents are actually decent people?” Clay’s face was getting uncomfortably warm, and his heart rate had accelerated. What kind of world did Amber Foley inhabit that she couldn’t conceive of kindness coming for free? And her insinuation about Justin… Clay couldn’t imagine his parents ever thinking that about him: that his only worth was in what he could provide for someone else. 

Amber chuckled dismissively at his comment. “I’ve known quite a few ‘decent’ rich men, kid. They offered to let us live with them and then they couldn’t keep their eyes off my boy.”

Clay stared, his brain short-circuiting. 

Amber must have seen the horror on his face, because she quickly jumped to her own defense. “I never let them touch him! We sure would have lived a lot better if I had, let me tell you. But I’m a good mother. I never let anybody touch Justin.”

No, Clay fumed, you just let them beat the shit out of him. Just neglected his basic needs. Just made it so he thought his only option was to turn to a fucking rapist for all his support. 

Clay didn’t know all the details of how Justin and his mother had lived. He knew enough. Once he had started paying attention, the pieces were all there, forming a vague but disturbing picture: Justin’s obsession with food and his aversion to confrontation, Bryce’s crass comments, Justin’s social services file that Clay had found in his mother’s desk when he was searching for a stamp (he wished he could physically excise those horrifying images out of his memory). 

How could Justin’s mother (his _fucking_ mother!) be so flippant about it all?

“Why are you here?” Clay didn’t care if his directness came off as cold. 

“I need to see my son. It’s a family matter.” Her voice was clipped. 

_We’re his family, you piece of crap._

After finishing the Coke, which she carelessly let drop to the floor, Amber turned uncommunicative and sullen. She slouched back on the couch and, once again, began chewing on her fingernails. Clay hated how much she reminded him of Justin. He had sulkiness down to an art form too. Was it genetic?

Clay stood there and glowered at her, hoping she would vaporize from the heat of his gaze. Or catch on to his open hostility and come to the conclusion that she should slink back to wherever she had come from.

Eventually, she looked up at him. It was clear that he didn’t intimidate her in the least. She had a slight smirk on her face when she said, “Hey, I took an Uber here. It was kind of expensive. You don’t happen to have $20 on you for the trip back, do you?”

“For real?” She stared through him blandly, like her request was perfectly reasonable. The last thing Clay wanted to do was to give her money, but he didn’t want her sticking around either, so it seemed a small price to pay. He dug out his wallet and threw two ten-dollar bills on the table in front of her. 

She pocketed them and then settled back comfortably, closing her eyes. 

_Motherfucker._

Clay pulled out his cell phone and texted a warning to his dad. He may have unwittingly walked into this clusterfuck, but that didn’t mean the rest of his family had to as well.

 

* * *

 

Clay promptly jumped up when he heard the front door open, almost stumbling when he put weight on his stiff legs. Amber bolted upright as well, patting her hair self-consciously. 

The wait had been interminable. Well, okay, it had only been twenty minutes. But it had been twenty minutes of sitting uncomfortably alert in his chair as Amber dozed on the couch across from him. Twenty minutes spent imagining all the ways that the upcoming reunion could end in disaster. He pictured police sirens. Fistfights. Pain. Tears. 

“Mom!”

The first person to come charging into the room was Justin. Upon seeing his mother, his face lit up with pure joy. He barreled straight into her arms, his hands clutching at her hair, lifting her off the ground by a few inches in his excitement.

Clay felt a hard, tight stone sinking in his stomach. Justin’s reaction was somehow worse than anything he had anticipated. Was it cruel that he had wanted anger? Or hurt? Or at least some hesitancy?

“Oh, my baby,” Amber sighed happily as Justin practically melted into her embrace.

Clay felt a hand touch his shoulder gently. He turned to his father, who had come up beside him. His mother was a step behind, eyes tight with concern.

“Everything okay here, kid?” his father asked. 

“If massively awkward counts as okay, then yeah,” Clay said. That was putting it mildly, but he didn’t want to cast a pall over the happy mother-son reunion occurring in the middle of their living room. 

His mother sidestepped around them and came to Clay’s other side. His parents now flanked him like two fierce guardians. Clay wondered if they were even aware of the protective barrier they had enclosed him in or if it was merely instinctual. _Thanks, guys, but I’m not the one who needs protecting._

Together, they watched as Amber finally pulled back from Justin and examined him, running her hands down his face and straightening the collar of his shirt. She then grabbed his left arm, yanked up his shirtsleeve, and traced the veins along the inside crease of his elbow. Justin flinched and pulled away. 

Amber spasmodically grabbed his hands in hers, not letting him move back. “You look good, baby."

Justin smiled. “So do you, Mom.” Clay didn’t see how Justin could possibly believe that. With her hair in disarray, her tired bloodshot eyes, her skeletal frame, the constant trembling in her hands… Well, she wasn’t exactly her best self. But maybe Justin’s comment stemmed from relief. He had once confessed to Clay that he feared his mother was dead. She was, at least, a far cry from that.

Justin glanced at Clay and his parents and shook himself in a happy little fit. Pulling his mother by the hands, he dragged her over to them.

“Mom, this is Matt and Lainie." He paused, clearly struggling to find the words to continue. “They… uh, after you… I mean after _I_ left you… they adopted me.” He looked contrite about the admission. It bothered Clay immensely.

His father, ever the peacemaker, stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “It’s nice to meet you, Amber. You’ve got a great kid here. Headstrong. Perceptive. Resilient.”

Justin smiled gratefully, and his cheeks reddened.

Amber folded her arms across her chest, refusing the handshake. She turned her gaze to his mother. “I never signed any adoption papers. You know that, right?”

“I do know,” Clay’s mother replied. Her face was stern and unflappable. Her lawyer facade was sinking over her, making for an imposing and intimidating figure. “We searched for you when your son was in juvenile detention, to no avail. He had nowhere to go, Amber, so the court granted us emergency custody. We wanted a more permanent solution, and I’m sorry that you had no say in it, but it was clear you didn’t want to be found.” 

Amber rolled her eyes. Justin ducked his head. 

“Lainie,” Matt said warningly. 

_Don’t stop now, Mom._ She didn’t.

“My husband and I wanted to adopt Justin, but the state of California requires a standard of clear and convincing evidence to terminate parental rights. It took four months, but we got the judge to sign off on the adoption in August. Amber, do you know what constitutes grounds for involuntary termination of rights?"

Amber narrowed her eyes and uncrossed her arms.

His mother, not missing a beat, answered her own question. "Prolonged child abandonment, illicit drug use in the home, severe child abuse, chronic and pernicious neglect. Do you know how many of those reasons applied to you?”

Clay, amazed, stared at his mother. Somehow she had used all her legal jargon to say exactly what Clay had wanted to earlier. It basically boiled down to saying, without actually saying, ‘You are a fucking shit of a mother.’

“You’re a real bitch,” Amber commented. She said it in a matter-of-fact way with no heat behind it. It didn't matter. Clay, temper flaring, started to rush forward, but his mother grabbed his arm tightly and held him back.

“Hey!” his father barked at Amber. “You can’t talk like that in my home. Not to my wife or to my sons.”

Justin jerked. Clay couldn’t see his face, couldn’t gauge his reaction. He hoped that his parents’ words were not going to backfire. If given a choice between his new family and his flesh-and-blood mother… Clay wasn’t sure whom Justin would choose. Justin was loyal to a fault, even to people who didn’t deserve his loyalty, and some bonds were sacred. 

Amber scoffed and looked at Justin beseechingly. “Is that what they made you believe? That I abandoned you? _You_ abandoned me, Justin. You’ve never stuck by me. Not once.” Justin didn’t respond.

Amber cradled Justin’s jaw, her demeanor changing rapidly to what Clay was sure was only feigned concern. “Are they mistreating you, baby?”

“No, Mom! Fuck!” Justin took a step away from her and towards Clay. “After Seth kicked me out and I was living on the streets, Clay saved me and brought me here, and the Jensens… They gave me a place to live.” His voice wavered. “They’ve been good to me… Better than I deserve.”

The muscles in Clay’s jaw twitched and he reached out his hand to touch Justin on the back in the space between his shoulder blades. Justin would recognize it for what it was. A refutation of all the crap Amber had said. A silent gesture of support and love. A plea for Justin: _Choose us. Choose us._

“How did you even know where I was?” Justin questioned.

“Social services,” Amber said, as if it was obvious.

Clay saw the loaded look that passed between his mother and father at that comment. Something wasn’t right there, but Clay couldn’t guess what it was.

“What do you want, Mom?” Justin asked resignedly. “Why are you here?” All Justin’s excitement and energy from just moments ago had disappeared, replaced by an almost clinical detachment.

Amber, sensing the tides turning, dropped the act. “I need to speak to you in private, Justin.”

Justin looked for permission from their parents.

“You may speak to him,” his mother said coldly. “But we’ll be right over there.”

His father had to physically pull Clay towards the kitchen in order to get him to move. He was surprised that his parents had even allowed Amber to talk to Justin in private, but Clay noticed that his father hovered in the doorway, never letting Justin out of his line of sight. His mother whipped out her cell phone, dialed a number, and then held it up to her ear, impatiently pacing the floor as she waited. 

“Is this really the time for Mom to be making a call?” Clay incredulously asked his father.

“She’s calling social services." His dad's lips were pressed into a tight line.

“Why?”

“Because Justin’s social worker can’t legally give out his physical address without our permission.”

“Even to his mom?”

“Legally speaking, she’s not his mother anymore. She has no more rights than a stranger would. Which means that either she’s lying or somebody really messed up at social services.”

“Hence the phone call,” Clay concluded.

“Right."

They both stared out into the living room where Justin and his mother stood talking quietly. Their words were muffled and indistinguishable. They could be talking about anything—how much you had to pay for a decent hit, where to run off to so that no one would be able to find you, what the weather was going to be like tomorrow. Clay couldn’t read Justin’s body language. He was closed off, stiff, and detached. Well, at least they weren’t shouting at each other. 

Next to him, his dad cursed quietly, quickly trying to disguise it as a simple inhale of breath. Clay saw right through it. He knew how much of a struggle it probably was for his dad to keep his composure in this situation. While he prided himself on keeping his cool, his father was always emotional when it came to his family.

Impulsively, Clay leaned into him. His dad stiffened in surprise, but then his arms wrapped around him, holding him with a solid and comforting grip.

“It’ll be okay,” his dad murmured, rubbing gentle circles on his back. “There’s nothing she can do to force a reunification at this point. Justin’s part of our family now.”

Reunification? The thought had not even crossed Clay’s mind. If Amber Foley had turned up even one month ago, all of this could have been a fucking disaster. Small miracles. Clay didn’t think Amber had any real interest in being a mother, but, after talking to her today, he thought maybe she would have fought a custody battle out of spite. Or out of a twisted and bored sort of victimhood.

When Clay pulled back, his father’s eyes were red and teary. “I love you, son. You know that?”

Clay pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do. And I guess I don’t say it enough, but thank you for not being a shitty dad.”

“Odd compliment, but I’ll take it." 

Clay smiled but then froze when he saw what Justin was doing. He had his wallet out and was handing something over to his mother, something that looked suspiciously like cash.

“Dad, he’s giving her money!”

His father knitted his brows but didn’t say anything. Clay slapped the wall in frustration. Then, he scuffed his shoes against the floorboards.

“Clay, calm down,” his father commanded. 

“Dad, how is this okay?”

His father sighed. “I’m not happy about it, but if that’s all she came for… The money can be replaced.”

Clay grumbled. 

“Clay,” his mother scolded. “Tell me I did not just see you scuffing my floors.” She had ended her phone call and was approaching the two of them, eyeing the floor critically.

Clay threw up his hand in revolt. Of all the things to focus on at this moment!

“What’s the scoop?” His dad wrapped his arm around his mother’s shoulders. 

“According to their records, no one has contacted social services about Justin. Matt, we can’t let this go.”

“I know, Lainie. I’ll talk to her. No matter how she got this address, she can’t be showing up here whenever–” 

“Guys,” Clay interrupted, pointing to the living room. The conversation had died down, and Justin was staring at them. Clay recognized in his look a silent plea for them to return.

Together, they walked back into the room. Clay tried to question Justin with a subtle facial movement. _You okay?_

Justin glanced away. 

“I have to go,” Amber said. “I really can’t stay.” Clay ground his teeth. The way she said it, like she was expecting them to object, was about the final straw for Clay. _Oh, please don’t go. You called my father a child molester and my mother a bitch, and you abused my brother for 17 years, but please stay for dinner?_ Was she fucking delusional?

“Do you need a ride?” his dad offered politely. 

“My boyfriend dropped me off. He’s parked down the road. I texted him to pick me up.”

“I guess you don’t need money for an Uber then?” Clay asked spitefully. Everyone looked at him in puzzlement… everyone except for Amber, who raised her eyebrows at him. She had no shame. 

Well, there was no one to blame for his lost $20 but himself. Maybe he was as naive as Justin was.

A car horn blared outside the house.

“That’s him,” Amber said. “He won’t come in. He doesn’t really like kids.” She looked apologetically at Justin and then gave him a brief hug. Justin just stood there, not accepting the embrace, but not pushing her away either. From Clay’s perspective, it looked like Amber was hugging a statue. After releasing Justin, Amber asked him, “What’s your phone number? I’d like to see you again.”

Justin’s eyes flitted their way. His mom darted forward. “We don’t let the boys have phone privileges. If you need to get in contact with Justin, I’ll give you my cell phone number and we can work out the arrangements that way.”

“Really?” Amber said sarcastically, but she handed her phone over anyway. Clay couldn’t be sure but he thought Justin actually looked reassured by the lie. _Nice one, Mom._

His mom inputted her number (and his dad’s as a backup) into Amber’s cell phone. As she finished, the car horn sounded again. 

“Fuck,” Amber snapped. 

“I’ll walk you out.” His dad gestured for her to lead the way.

“Bye, baby,” Amber called as they moved off. It was several seconds after the front door had closed before Justin finally said, “Bye.”

It was now just the three of them. Clay shared a look with his mother. He thought she might be the better choice of the two of them to break the silence. Justin was standing there forlornly, like he was lost in the woods and a wrong move would draw the wolves.

“Hey, sweetie,” his mother said, reaching out for Justin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

Justin swallowed. “No, I… I think I’m going to go upstairs. I’m sorry for all this, Mrs. Jensen.” _Mrs. Jensen._ Not Lainie. Justin had been using her first name for weeks now. This was a backslide. His mother’s face fell.

Justin pushed past her and then brushed past Clay as well.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Justin,” his mother called after him. “Everything’s okay!” Despite her words, his mother looked devastated. Now that Amber Foley was gone, his mom’s walls were coming down. When she saw Clay looking at her, though, she straightened her spine and smiled.

“Let’s give him a little time. Okay, honey?”

Clay nodded. He left the room and sat on the bottom step of the staircase. He rested his arms on his knees and then allowed his head to fall onto his crossed arms. Should he give Justin some space? Or should he offer to talk? Maybe he should take him up some of those nasty-ass cookies he liked so much? _Sorry about your mom. Want a dessert?_

Space. He should give Justin space and time.

Clay lasted all of one minute before he jumped to his feet and bounded up the stairs to their bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Their bedroom door was cracked open at a 45-degree angle. Clay flung it open, deliberately making a lot of noise to alert Justin to his presence. Justin didn’t react. He was at their desk, typing steadily on his laptop, papers and books spread chaotically across the surface.

“What are you working on?” Clay asked casually.

“Hamlet essay,” Justin replied tersely.

Clay frowned. So… minutes after seeing his mother for the first time in five months, Justin had decided to tackle their English assignment? Clay was about to call bullshit, but then he saw that Justin did actually have his Shakespeare Reader out on the desk. Plus, there was no denying the sound of the keystrokes and the words appearing on the screen.

Clay sat down on his bed, staring at Justin’s profile carefully. What was there to say? 

_Your mom’s a fucking piece of shit._ Somehow, Clay didn’t think Justin would appreciate such a stark disparagement of his mother, even if it was the truth.

 _It was nice to meet your mom._ No, that was even worse. Clay didn’t think he could pull those words off without bitter sarcasm.

So, he settled for, “Your mom seems… complicated.”

Justin stopped typing. “She’s really not.”

“Oh,” Clay said. “What did she want anyway?” He fully expected Justin to get angry with him for asking or to make some passive-aggressive comment to push him away. Clay knew his moods well by now. He was willing to risk the backlash.

“Money." 

Clay scooted farther up his bed so that he could actually see Justin’s face. “She showed up after all this time just to ask you for whatever money you had in your wallet?”

Justin shrugged assent, avoiding Clay’s gaze. Clay knew he was lying. Well, maybe not lying—Amber _had_ taken the money—but it wasn’t the whole truth. There was more to this story, and Justin was keeping it to himself. 

There had been a time when Clay wouldn’t have accepted the lie. He would have pressured Justin, cajoled him, given him the cold shoulder… and Justin would have inevitably caved. He was so malleable, so easy to manipulate when you knew which buttons to press. But that was exactly why Clay wouldn’t do it; Justin had had enough people in his life exploit him. Even Clay had done it.

No longer. If Justin didn’t want to tell him anything, Clay had to accept it.

“Are you okay?” Clay simply asked.

“No,” Justin admitted, swiveling on the chair to face Clay. He was chewing on his lower lip—no, not chewing, Clay realized, but biting down hard. Little red dots of blood were beading on the surface. Clay watched them form.

“Clay,” Justin pleaded. “Can–, can we not make a fucking big deal about it? I just want to forget. I want to work on this stupid Hamlet essay and forget. Please?”

“Okay, sure,” Clay quickly assured him. He could give Justin a reprieve and wipe the last hour from their collective memory. If that was what he needed to make this okay, then Clay could roll with it. Besides, his parents would insist on discussing today’s events at some point anyway. Hopefully, they would give it a day or two.

“Do you want me to proof your essay?” he offered.

“It’s not done yet.” Justin licked the blood off his lips. 

Clay stomach twisted. “Well, I could look over what you have so far?” He forced a smile. “That way if it’s a complete train wreck, we can course correct before you expend too much effort?” 

Justin’s face scrunched in annoyance, but he nodded. “Yeah, thanks. Let me guess, you already finished your essay?”

“Yes,” Clay confirmed. “Because I’m not a procrastinator like you are.”

Justin, ignoring the slight, passed him his laptop. “Do you want me to proof yours?” 

“Sure." Clay put the laptop to the side and grabbed his finished paper from his backpack.

Justin always offered to look over Clay’s work, although Clay didn’t understand why. Justin spent more time grumbling about how Clay wrote like a middle-aged sex-deprived college professor than he did actually giving any constructive comments. Mostly he just circled all the big SAT words that Clay had assiduously worked in and wrote “Is this English???” in bold letters down the side of the paper. Clay didn’t mind; sometimes, Justin actually did write something intelligent that made Clay rethink a crucial point. 

They settled in, and Clay began to read what Justin had so far. He was off to a good start. He needed a stronger thesis statement and his grammar was shit, but there were some good ideas in there that could be expanded upon.

While they were still working, his mother knocked at the door. She looked relieved to see them doing something so mundane and studious. “We ordered some pizza. Do you boys want to eat up here?”

Clay glanced at Justin.

“Yeah."

“Sure,” Clay echoed.

“Okay,” she said. “Come grab a plate and some drinks.” She smiled, her eyes lingering on Justin for a moment before she turned and left the room. 

Justin tossed Clay’s essay on his bed and then rushed to the door. He stopped at the threshold.

“Come on, dumbass,” he called. “You can get a boner over Hamlet later.”

“Shut up, Justin.”

 

* * *

 

They had turned the lights out twenty minutes ago, but Clay couldn’t sleep. Judging by all the tossing and turning from the opposite bed, neither could Justin. 

“Hey, Clay?” The words were a tentative whisper in the dark. Even wide-awake, Clay almost missed them.

“Yeah?”

When Justin didn't respond, Clay wondered if he had imagined him saying anything after all. But, to be sure, Clay softly questioned, "Justin?"

“I wanted to go with her today,” Justin finally said. “My mom.”

Clay swallowed hard. “She asked you to leave?”

“No,” Justin lamented. “She didn’t. But, if she had, I… I think I would have gone with her.”

_Why, Justin? Why in fuck’s sake would you want to go back to that?_

Clay wanted to get out of bed and shake his brother. Or tie him to the bed. But, taking a steadying breath, he realized that Justin was telling him this for a reason. What did he want from Clay? Understanding? Permission? Forgiveness? 

Maybe he just needed someone to draw a line. 

“Well, tough,” Clay said. “My parents are kind of attached to you. They wouldn’t have let you leave.” He paused. “And I’ve gotten used to not being an only child. It would take too much effort for me to re-adjust.”

Justin was silent. 

Clay rolled over and pulled his blankets tight around his body. “You’re not going anywhere, Justin,” he said firmly.

Justin sniffed. “Yeah, I know.” Maybe it was wishful thinking, but Clay thought he heard a yielding acceptance in Justin’s tone. 

The restlessness quieted down from the neighboring bed. It wasn’t long before he heard the deep and regular breathing that indicated Justin had fallen asleep. 

_If you leave, Justin, I'll drag you back. However many fucking times I have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • I’m planting seeds for future one-shots regarding Amber. I know she’s despicable, but she is Justin’s mother and an important part of his story. 
> 
> • I recognize that Amber is a victim of abuse herself and deserves help for her drug addiction. But I have zero sympathy for her in regards to her parenting, and my moral outrage at her failure to protect her son is as strong as Clay’s. 
> 
> • Your comments and thoughts are precious gifts that I hoard like a stingy dragon. :D Thanks everyone!!


	13. A Father's Love #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt reflects on the challenges of adopting a 17-year-old boy and contemplates what it means to open his heart up to a second son. Part 1 of 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: May through September post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: References to past child abuse
> 
> There is very little Justin and Clay interaction in these three chapters (sorry!!), but they'll return in chapter 16. But if you are interested in Matt's relationship with Justin, like I am, read on. :)
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, **13** , 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 10, 19, 21, 22, 23

Matt had always wanted children. He had been an only child, and, as a boy, when his school friends had piled out of their cars each morning in neat little sibling pairs, trios, and quads, he had watched with envy. It was all so wonderful to him: the easy camaraderie, the inside jokes, the protectiveness, even the quarrels and shouting matches.

As he grew up, Matt envisioned what his future children would be like. Perhaps five or six brown-haired intellectuals, sitting around the dinner table and chatting about J.R.R. Tolkien and Emily Dickinson and Marcel Proust, like Matt had done with his own father. Matt imagined taking his children stargazing on cold, clear nights and going hiking with them on balmy, summer afternoons. He would encourage them to paint and write and create.

Then, in his second year at UC Berkeley, he met Lainie. So wild and beautiful… Even her name was like silk. She knocked him on his ass from the very first moment he saw her. She had been his opposition at a Debate Society competition, and in one single night, she had so captivated him with her poise and her fire that he found himself refining his dreams. Now he imagined little blonde-haired babies who would set out to change the world, stubbornly refusing to let anyone tread on them.

Beyond all hope and logic, Lainie actually accepted his invitation for a date, and three years later, they were married.

Lainie wanted kids too, but she laughed when Matt told her about the half-dozen children he had conjured up in his mind. Lainie had grown up in a big family, with siblings and cousins and second cousins. She had done more than her fair share of babysitting. “Trust me,” she told him. “Two kids will be plenty. One child for each one of us. Any more than that and it'll be pure chaos. There'll never be a minute’s peace.”

Of course, Lainie was right. Better to give undivided attention to two children and make sure they had all the tools and skills and emotional intelligence to deal with the world. So that was their plan. After the first child, they would wait three years and try again.

Reality struck down the meticulous plan. Lainie got pregnant, and her pregnancy was difficult and fraught with anxiety. There were so many complications, so many worries and fears before their baby had even taken his first breath. It was a miracle that she even carried their son to term. While there were no guarantees that another pregnancy would be so arduous, Lainie did not want to go through that again. Matt didn't want her to either. Together, they made the decision to take active measures to prevent conception. It was nothing permanent, but unless they fell into the statistically unlikely 0.1%, they were done with having children. 

There was no need for Matt to adjust his dream again because they already had perfection. 

Clay Matthew Jensen, their beautiful little blessing. 

When Matt first touched Clay’s soft infant head of dark hair and felt those tiny fingers curl around his thumb, he knew that there was no pain he would not willingly bear to keep his little boy safe. From that moment, his life was irrevocably changed.

 

* * *

 

The first time Matt met his second son, he almost clubbed him over the head with a baseball bat. It wasn’t the most auspicious meeting. While it was an amusing story to tell, Matt wished he could say that he had seen the potential of what was to come from the very first second he had set eyes on Justin. At the time, though, all he really had been thinking was, _‘What the hell are you doing in my son’s bedroom?’_

The answer came much later: Because that's where you were always meant to be.

 

* * *

 

As he grew up, Clay was everything Matt had hoped for his child to be: obstinate and disciplined, empathetic and discerning. He had a zeal for learning that came from Matt, a righteous sense of justice that came from Lainie, and a creative spark that was all his own. 

It wasn’t unexpected that when Clay became a teenager, there would be struggles. He was socially awkward and disinclined toward athletics. He had anxiety and struggled to make friends. He reminded Matt so much of himself at that age. And, just like when Matt was young, high school was full of insecure teenagers who were cruel and stupid. They bullied his son. Matt tried his best to comfort Clay. High school would only last four years. Four years of hell, no denying it, but college… College would be different. You could find your niche where people would appreciate all your idiosyncrasies and quirks.

Then came Hannah Baker’s suicide. It was a stark reminder that no matter how special and unique a child was, no matter how bright their future, they could become so broken by those brief high school years that they would refuse to outlive them. Still, even though Lainie lost her composure and smothered Clay with her concern, Matt chose the route of denial. It couldn’t happen to his son. Not to his son. Clay had a good head on his shoulders. 

Of course, they didn’t realize at the time how connected Clay was to Hannah and the stress that her death had brought to his life. Once they figured it out, he and Lainie had regrouped and tried to support him the best ways they knew how. Where once Clay had been so open with them, now he pushed them away, wanting to deal with his struggles on his own. 

It was the hardest thing Matt had ever confronted as a parent: knowing when not to parent. How much should he step back? How much space did Clay need to grieve? 

They played it by ear and things began to settle back into a routine. A week, a month, two months, four months…

The long-awaited trial began and then, inexplicably, Clay smuggled a homeless boy into his bedroom, and things got shaky again.

 

* * *

 

Justin Foley had apparently been a big deal at Liberty High—a star athlete, top of the social hierarchy—but when Clay brought the kid into their home, he just seemed like a lost little boy. Emotionally wounded. Starved for affection. Curious and full of energy.

Letting Justin stay at their house before he testified had been a no-brainer. There was no way that Matt would let a classmate of his son go back to an unsafe home environment. It was a temporary arrangement. Matt didn’t feel a crushing sense of responsibility towards him (that would come later). At that point, Justin was only a transient houseguest. 

Even so, the boy fit right in. Maybe Matt subconsciously used Justin as a replacement for Clay. He sorely missed talking to his kid. Clay had become so distant and combative with both him and Lainie. While the reasons for Clay’s behavior were understandable, Matt still found it nice to have someone new in the household who complimented his cooking, who was eager to learn how to do chores, who laughed at Matt’s jokes instead of rolling his eyes. 

Matt should have anticipated the jealous pushback from Clay for the open welcome they gave Justin, but it didn’t even cross his radar. Once he did finally realize that Clay’s feelings about the matter might be complicated, it had become a non-issue because Justin—as quickly as he had come—had gone. He had been arrested after testifying and sent to juvenile detention. 

Matt refocused his attention on Clay, and it was as if some barrier between them had broken down in the past week. He was laughing again. He was more optimistic, less angry. He was finally willing to sit down and talk to Matt.

In the following weeks, Matt certainly didn’t forget about the troubled boy that had briefly stayed in their home. Justin was impossible to forget. Matt, Lainie, and Clay visited him every week in juvenile detention, assuring him that they were working on a solution. 

When attempts to find Amber Foley failed, Clay’s touching commitment to Justin’s welfare made deciding to emergency foster the kid very easy. When Lainie broached the idea of adoption, however, Matt wasn't exactly over-the-moon about the idea. Yes, he had always dreamed of having more children, but he had never expected to step into the role of father for a child whose first seventeen years of life he had completely missed. Justin would be bringing a lot of baggage with him. All those issues… abuse and neglect… an accessory to the rape of his girlfriend… months of living on the street in who-knows-what conditions… heroin addiction. How could he and Lainie cope with all of that? How could they possibly provide the help that was needed? How could anyone?

When Lainie presented him with Justin’s social services file, Matt was outraged. Then he was quickly paralyzed by helplessness. Finally, a strong protective impulse almost bowled him over. He had felt it only once before: the first time he had cradled Clay’s infant body in his hands and thought, “I’ll protect you, little one, or die trying.”

It was that same feeling with Justin now. Matt surrendered to it.

 

* * *

 

Matt knew that, no matter the circumstances, adoption was no walk in the park. Even so, he thought that he and Lainie had chosen the hardest age range. How did one suddenly become a parent to a 17-year-old boy? Justin was one year away from being an adult, and he was entering their home with a long and sordid history of substandard parenting. 

It had been different with Clay. Clay had known from infancy that he could reach his arms out to his parents for refuge and nurture. As he had grown up, Matt and Lainie had built on that trust, weaving a stable and robust safety net for their son to fall back on, if he needed.

But they had to start from scratch with Justin. They were strangers to him. There was no trust there, so it was important not to push too hard or have unreasonable expectations. It didn’t help that they didn’t even know how to interpret the kid’s behavior and moods. Was he sad? Was he upset? Was he pretending to be happy or was his smile in earnest? Was an odd behavior that they observed normal for him? Or was it a cry for help? A remnant of past neglect? Merely a bad day?

Matt realized later on that they let too many things slide in those early days in an effort to create a safe environment. They should have been more proactive in getting Justin help. They also shouldn’t have let their focus slide away from Clay; if they hadn’t, maybe they would have noticed how much their first-born son was struggling. When it came right down to it, they shouldn’t have allowed either teenager time to adjust or space to heal… Immediate action would have saved so much strife and heartache later on.

 

* * *

 

There was one issue that Lainie emphatically insisted that they needed to discuss with Justin immediately. It was awkward, but Matt agreed that it couldn’t wait.

In the first week, they asked Clay to stay in his bedroom, while they sat down at the kitchen table with Justin.

Lainie, as had already become the precedent, took the lead. “We don’t want to shame or embarrass you, Justin, but we do need to talk about what happened with Jessica Davis.”

The color drained from Justin’s face, and he immediately began to fidget in his chair.

“Do you understand what consent is?” Matt asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey, no need for a ‘sir.’ This isn’t a lecture. It’s just an open dialogue, okay?” 

“Okay.” Justin looked so very uncomfortable (almost like he was going to be sick), but Lainie pushed on, as Matt knew she had to do.

“Can you explain it for us? Consent.”

Justin nodded. “It’s not doing anything sexual with someone unless they agree to it.”

“Okay, good,” Lainie said. She kept her voice light, but her tone was serious. “I’m just going to go over a few examples with you, because, while consent is a simple idea, we don’t talk about it enough. A person who is drunk or passed out or using any mind-altering substance cannot consent.”

“Yeah, I know,” Justin said guardedly.

“And if someone pressures or tricks someone else into having sex, even if they say yes, that’s not consent. If you want to do something sexual with someone and they say, ‘I don’t know,’ or if they’re silent, that’s not consent either. A consent is a ‘yes’ and you need to hear it every time, Justin. It may not be verbal, but if whomever you’re with seems uncomfortable, you need to be attentive and react accordingly. Do you understand all this?”

Justin looked Lainie full in the face. “Yes.” He said the word with conviction and earnestness.

“And finally,” Lainie said, “if you see someone forcing or pressuring someone else into a sexual act, you should not intervene if you don’t feel safe. But you do need to call the police or get an adult to help immediately.” 

Justin averted his gaze. “I understand, Mrs. Jensen.” His eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

Matt wished that they had more time to establish a stronger rapport with Justin before this conversation, but they didn’t know for sure, given his past actions, that anyone had ever taught him right from wrong when it came to sex. All their concerns were valid, but Matt also didn’t want their words to sound like pure recrimination.

“We’ve been over all this with Clay too, Justin,” Matt explained patiently. “We’re not singling you out. But now that you know all this, Lainie and I are expecting full compliance.” He gave Justin a moment to digest his words before he continued. 

“Everything Lainie said, it goes for you too, son. You can change your mind at any time during sex, and you should never do anything that makes you uncomfortable. In our culture, there is an unrealistic expectation and pressure to have sex, especially for teenage boys. You need to know that your classmates probably exaggerate how sexually active they are, and you do not need to try to compete with them.”

Justin’s cheeks colored. Matt thought he knew why. Clay had been very open in telling them about Justin’s sexual reputation. It certainly wasn’t unheard of for a teenage boy to be so promiscuous, but it was their responsibility to make sure that it was a healthy expression of his sexuality and not a way of coping with past abuse.

“We know you’ve been sexually active in the past,” Matt continued. “And that’s okay. Sex can be a fun and intimate way to express how you feel about someone. Is that how it is for you? Enjoyable?”

Justin gave him a very clear ‘are you fucking kidding?’ facial expression. “Yeah, I like sex,” he said defensively.

Matt took a deep breath. “If anyone has ever forced you into sex in the past or hurt you, Justin, you can tell us. There’s nothing you can’t say in this home.” 

“No!” Justin’s denial was instantaneousness. “No one ever hurt me like that.” He wiped furiously at his nose, as a single tear spilled over from the corner of his eye. “I know I fucked up with Bryce and Jessica. I can’t ever take it back. I have no excuses.” 

“Okay.” Lainie reached out her hand for Justin’s before quickly halting the motion and bringing it up to brush her hair back instead.

In their fostering classes, Matt and Lainie had been instructed on how to approach any and all possible forms of abuse. Justin’s vehement response to their question, assuming that it was genuine, meant they could strike sexual abuse off the list. Unfortunately, they knew for a fact that physical abuse and neglect had left their marks on this boy.

“We’re almost done, Justin, I promise,” Lainie said. “Can you tell us if you use protection when you have sex?”

“Yes."

“Every time?”

Justin’s hesitation answered that question for them.

“You need to use a condom every time, kid, even for oral sex.” Matt nodded at Lainie, who got up and went to the counter and picked up the shopping bag that she had set there earlier.

Lainie placed the bag in front of Justin. “We purchased you some condoms. As we said, you don’t need to be having sex at your age. It’s okay to wait. But, if you are going to, we want you to be somewhere safe and that includes this house. Please be respectful to everyone in the vicinity.”

“She means: lock the door,” Matt interpreted.

Lainie shot him an annoyed look. “And make sure that you and Clay are on the same page as far as boundaries. The bedroom belongs equally to you both.”

Matt leaned back in his chair, letting out an audible sigh. “All right. Whew.” He studied Justin. “I know that was probably a little awkward?”

“Yeah,” Justin said.

“It doesn’t need to be,” Matt insisted. “Thank you for listening. Do you have any questions?”

“No. Thanks, Mrs. Jensen. Mr. Jensen.” 

“You’re welcome, Justin.” Lainie motioned with her hand to let Justin know that he could leave now.

“You can commiserate with Clay,” Matt said as Justin stood up. “Family rite of passage.” Justin gave him a doubtful look, grabbed the grocery bag and rushed out of the room.

Lainie sank into Justin’s deserted chair. “Oh, God.” She laughed. “I hope we didn’t traumatize him.”

“I think plenty of adults in his life have already succeeded at that,” Matt said soberly. “Our conversation won’t even scratch the surface.” He grabbed her hand. “Good teamwork.”

Together, they had cleared one hurdle. There were so many more to come.

 

* * *

 

The thing that had intimidated Matt most about adopting Justin was dealing with the complex trauma of his past. All they had to go off of was Justin’s social services file, and it was such an incomplete record. It contained enough information to keep him awake at night as it was, but what it didn’t say haunted Matt every bit as much. There was no way to know the full extent of Justin's scars or how much psychic pain he hid below the surface. 

Their social worker had warned them of all the potential issues that could arise from a child with Justin’s background. Aggressive behavior, self-inflicted violence, sexual promiscuity, deliberate testing of boundaries, lying, hoarding, stealing. The list had almost given Matt a panic attack. They were ill-equipped to handle even just one of those issues, let alone multiple ones.

But, if they didn’t do it… Well, no one else was volunteering to step up. Justin didn’t deserve to be placed in a group home, where kids were often treated like prisoners. Matt and Lainie weren't perfect, but at least they could offer a safe and supportive home environment. At least they could be _there_.

He needn’t have worried so much. In fact, at first, if Matt hadn’t known about Justin’s past, he would have thought he was a well-adjusted and carefree teenager. Justin was excessively easygoing—to such an exaggerated extent that Matt suspected that it was a front he maintained because he feared he would otherwise be kicked out of their home. The kid was in protective mode, hiding behind a mask of compliance in order to insulate himself from pain and rejection. It was disheartening, but little by little, he began to remove the mask and let them see his layers.

Justin was loud and boisterous and unabashedly interested in involving himself in all the goings-on of their household. The sound of zealous good-natured arguments from the boys’ bedroom became background noise. And after they had given Justin leave to have friends over, the parade of houseguests traipsing through their door sometimes gave Matt flashbacks to the time he had been a frazzled RA in his college dormitory.

From day one, Justin had surprised them both by initiating physical contact, particularly with Clay. Lainie took this as her cue to treat Justin no differently than Clay, offering hugs and kisses equally between both teenagers. Justin, at first taken back, began to respond with relish to Lainie’s attention. 

It was different for Matt. The second day of being an official foster father, he had touched Justin on the shoulder without announcing his presence and Justin had recoiled, dropping the glass he was holding and spilling milk all over the kitchen floor. Matt had quickly backed up and held his arms non-threateningly at his side. Justin had laughed nonchalantly and apologized for being clumsy. But the way the kid’s hands had come up to shield himself from a blow—it had left a sick feeling in Matt’s stomach for hours.

It wasn’t only unexpected touches that Matt had to be careful about in those first few weeks. It was also his mannerisms. He was more than a little shocked at how often Justin used curse words and slurs. Matt wasn’t a prude, and he knew the lingo of teenage boys, but still... There was a line somewhere that needed to be respected. When Justin made a sexist remark right in front of Lainie, Matt finally snapped and raised his voice, telling Justin that crude and offensive language was not acceptable in their home. Justin flung himself against the wall, eyeing the nearest exit, as if he had expected the situation to escalate to… what? A beat-down? 

Matt knew not to take it personally. Many adult males in Justin’s personal life had found it acceptable to lash out with unpredictable violence. So, Matt took extra care not to startle Justin, to always reach out to him slowly and allow for rejection. He discovered that, if he approached him with due diligence, Justin was much more amenable to displays of physical affection than Clay was, and it was a different form of bonding, one that Matt unreservedly embraced. His new son spoke a tactile language, and the key to parsing his emotions often rested in his body language, rather than in the words he utilized.

Going forward, Matt made a concerted effort not to raise his voice and instead correct any missteps in Justin’s behavior with a resolute and reasonable tone. He was a college professor. He could keep his cool and still provide the needed instruction in common household courtesy. Besides, Lainie had basically always been the firm hand when it came to Clay anyway, and Justin, not unexpectedly, instinctually looked to Lainie as the authority figure. 

It sometimes put Matt in an uncomfortable position. He would remind Justin to do something four times, with no result. Lainie would gently encourage Justin to do the same thing, and he would immediately respond and get it done. It was frustrating, but Matt didn’t want to seem unreasonable or insensitive. Some things would just take time.

 

* * *

 

After the first month, Justin began to reveal that yes, he was, in fact, a teenage boy who was willing to test the waters with them. It a way, it was actually a relief when he started to misbehave. It meant he felt secure enough around them to be rebellious and thoughtless, a welcome change to his initial tendency to be overly accommodating or submissive.

He broke his curfew. They scolded him. He broke it again. They scolded him again. Justin’s reactions sometimes made it hard to follow through with a punishment; it was as if he regressed to the emotional state of a much younger child at the merest hint of a reprimand. Sticking to their guns, Matt and Lainie tried to walk a fine line between exuding disappointment and assuring Justin that he had a permanent place with them no matter what he did.

“Justin, we’ve been over this _so_ many times,” Lainie would say. “You’re new here, so we’ve been lenient, but this behavior is unacceptable. There are going to be consequences.”

Justin did try. Matt made a point to acknowledge his successes, even if they were so hard won. The first time Justin actually remembered to text that he would be late coming home from school, Matt went overboard in thanking him for doing so (it had been a clear rule from day one that this courtesy was expected every single time—one which Justin had hitherto ignored). 

One evening, when Mr. Davis called their landline in a fury, asking why they had allowed Justin to come over to see Jessica when he had expressly forbidden “that boy” from being alone in the house with his daughter, they had to admit that they didn’t know Justin had done so. He had lied to them, telling them he was going over to Zach’s for a few hours. 

When they confronted Justin about the situation, he initially stuck to his lie about where he had been. When they applied some pressure and he eventually caved, he confessed that it wasn’t a one-time thing. Many of the times that Justin had asked permission to go to his friends’ homes or to stay late at school for a little extra help, he had really been alone, unsupervised, with Jessica Davis.

It wasn’t that they minded Justin spending time with Jessica, but Mr. Davis had set clear rules in stone and Justin had known about them and deliberately disregarded them. Now Lainie and Matt had an irate parent on their backs, condemning their lax parenting and calling for a cease of all contact between Jessica and Justin. They had no choice but to stand as fellow parents in solidarity with Mr. Davis. The next few weeks, Justin took brooding to a whole new level as he wandered the house in a lovesick stupor. In the end, Matt hoped the tough love made an impact.

The lying didn’t just involve girlfriends; sometimes, it involved Justin’s own safety. One afternoon, Bill Standall called Matt at work, informing him that his two children had confronted a meth dealer during Justin’s lunch break at school. The man, Seth, had brought a knife. As if that wasn’t enough to send Matt’s blood pressure through the roof already, the full story eventually came out. 

Seth, one of Amber Foley’s ex-boyfriends, had been threatening Justin for most of the summer in an extortion scheme. Clay had gotten involved and deliberately provoked the unstable man into breaking the law on school property. Matt could very well have lost both of his children. He didn’t know which was worse: their foolish actions or their feeble attempts to justify them. When Matt and Lainie chastised them, the boys presented a united front. Two children ganging up against him as a father… He had never experienced that before. 

Overall, despite the “Seth incident” (as they came to refer to it), they had no additional horror stories to share at their fostering group. Mostly they only had little things to deal with: 

_It’s okay to be messy, Justin, but please respect Clay’s space._

_Yes, we really will wash your clothes, but if you'd prefer to do it yourself, don't leave them laying on the floor._

_No, you don’t have to tell us what’s bothering you, but you do need to actually communicate with words so we know you’re okay._

_Yes, you can help yourself to food from the pantry, but you can’t subsist on junk food._

 

* * *

 

One of the first concrete traits that Matt learned about Justin was that he loved food. Whenever Matt cooked, Justin was always generous with the superlatives. Matt’s pancakes were “awesome,” his pasta bolognese was “the bomb,” and his garlic chicken was the “best meal ever.” It was nice, at first, to have someone be so appreciative of his cooking. Eventually, it turned puzzling.

For instance, when Justin exclaimed that Lainie’s meatloaf (a dish she made to honor her grandmother rather than out of any gustatory or olfactory merit) was “fucking incredible,” Matt seriously began to wonder about Justin’s standards. Because, as Clay rightly observed, “Justin, this meatloaf tastes like dirty socks.” Maybe Justin didn’t really like Matt’s cooking after all and he merely felt the need to praise anything set before him. If you didn’t know when your next meal would come, you didn’t turn away food. 

This suspicion was confirmed when, after returning from a two-day workshop out of town, Matt found a container of lunchmeat in the fridge. He figured that Lainie had bought it while he was gone and so he set the container out for Saturday lunch with the boys. Justin was the first to make a sandwich and dug into it with gusto. Matt was finishing up some notes for his colleague at the table when Clay arrived to make his lunch. 

“Ugh, gross!” Clay cried, holding up a piece of sliced deli turkey. It was greying around the edges and when Matt came over to investigate, he found that it was wet and slimy with a sour smell. In sync, they turned to Justin who was happily munching away. “Justin!” Clay exclaimed, snatching the sandwich out of his hand. “Don’t eat that!”

“What?” Justin asked, annoyed, reaching for his sandwich back. “Get your own!”

“That’s so disgusting, Justin! The meat is bad, and now you’re probably going to get sick.”

Matt stood up and took the half-eaten sandwich from Clay and confirmed that, yes, Justin had been eating what was clearly bad meat. It was probably at least 10 days old and had gotten pushed from the back of the shelf towards the front while he had been away.

Matt gently explained about the spoiled meat and Justin increasingly looked embarrassed (and ashamed). Matt reassured him; inwardly, though, he had a moment of mild panic. Justin’s happy-go-lucky attitude towards food was suddenly not quite so endearing. 

Hours later, Justin developed severe stomach cramps and spent most of the evening in the bathroom. It was a hard lesson, one that a teenage boy should already have learned. It was a problem that they would have to address. In their bed that night, Matt and Lainie discussed at length how they could foster in Justin a more appropriate relationship with food.

Lainie took the initiative in trying to get Justin to open up about his dietary preferences. It was nigh impossible.

“What do you like to eat, Justin?” Lainie asked him.

“Anything,” he answered.

“Okay, what don’t you like to eat?”

“I’ll eat anything.” 

“Okay, but if you were allowed to choose five foods that you never had to eat again, what would they be?”

“Anything’s good.”

Direct interrogation was unproductive, so they switched tactics. Once they determined for sure that Justin didn’t have any food allergies, they stocked the house with a wide variety of food items. At dinner, they cooked more food than was necessary and offered Justin a choice between two or three items. Lainie made observations, took inventory, and eventually came up with a list of what was being eaten the most and adjusted her shopping accordingly.

After observing Justin’s predilection for microwave dinners and overly processed junk food, Matt offered to teach him to cook. Justin took to the idea with enthusiasm. Once Matt had shown him the basics, Justin progressed rapidly. He regularly helped chop the vegetables at dinner, could pronounce the names of all the spices that they had in the house, and Matt soon felt comfortable leaving him unsupervised at the grill in charge of the meat. 

The first morning that Matt woke up to find Justin cooking breakfast for himself (instead of consuming two bowls of sugary cereal), he nodded approvingly. 

“I made you some coffee, Mr. Jensen.” Justin poured him a cup, and it was perfectly to Matt’s liking.

“Thanks, kid.” He ruffled Justin’s hair. 

Mere days later, when Matt passed Justin the bowl of green beans at dinner, Justin passed it on to Clay, saying, “I don’t really like green beans.” Matt couldn’t help but grin at Lainie, who smiled and began cutting her meat with a satisfied vigor. Progress, albeit slow progress, was encouraging.

 

* * *

 

One Sunday night, Justin timidly asked if he could cook dinner for the family. Matt, surprised, promptly accepted the offer. Clay was skeptical. “We’re really going to eat a dinner cooked by _Justin_? Is this a cruel joke?” 

Unfortunately, Clay turned out to be right in his concerns. Justin proudly served them his version of spaghetti: overcooked noodles slathered with ketchup and a plate of suspiciously yellow bread on the side. Matt took a generous portion for himself; so did Lainie. Clay stared morosely at his plate after Justin topped it off for him.

“Dude,” Clay said, poking the bread. “Is that mustard?”

“Yeah, mustard sandwiches. My mom used to make this for me as a kid. It’s incredible.” 

“Uh." Clay valiantly attempted a bite of the ‘spaghetti.’ His face twisted, and then there was a paroxysm of coughing. 

Lainie nibbled at the noodles politely. Matt tried a bite of the bread and nearly gagged. “Is it supposed to be so salty?” he asked curiously.

Justin piled noodles on his own piece of mustard bread and chowed down happily. “I might have gone overboard on the salt. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Salt was once a very precious commodity in the ancient world, you know. We would be very rich by their standards."

Clay glared at him, then downed his entire glass of milk.

“My mom used to work at a restaurant,” Justin explained, chewing noisily. “She would smuggle the free little condiment packets into her purse to bring home and we would get the restaurant’s day-old bread. So…” Justin clapped his hands together. “Perfect meal. If the bread was stale, the salt would mask the taste. But your bread’s never stale, so I should have left off the salt. I’ll remember next time.”

“Next time?” Clay asked weakly. “Maybe this should be a Justin-only dish.” 

Justin stared at him in shock. “You don’t like it?”

Clay at least gave an attempt at a smile. “No, man, it’s great. I’m just not a big fan of ketchup on my noodles. Or mustard. Or any combination thereof.” Clay pushed his plate back. “I’ll make a turkey sandwich.”

Although he would have liked to follow Clay’s lead, Matt pushed through and, with the aid of two glasses of water, even asked Justin for seconds. Lainie diligently cleaned her plate as well. The sacrifices you would make for your children… 

 

* * *

 

“How’s Clay getting along with your new kid? Any squabbles?” 

That was the first question one of Matt’s colleague asked him after Matt announced their new foster situation at a faculty meeting. It gave Matt pause. While yes, it would have been perfectly reasonable to expect some adjustment difficulty, it had never really crossed Matt’s mind to fret.

It probably should have. Justin and Clay had not been friends at Liberty High; Clay had certainly never mentioned Justin to him and Lainie before. And, in terms of interests and personalities, Clay and Justin were on opposite sides of the spectrum. It was, at face value, inconceivable that there wouldn’t be at least some animosity between them.

But starting from the first day that Justin had returned to their home, it had been smooth sailing between the boys. They bickered, sure, but it was more in the spirit of good-natured teasing, which Lainie claimed was a time-honored sibling prerogative. Their fights, such as they were, resolved themselves without any parental intervention needed.

In fact, Clay did more to help Justin settle into their home in those early days than Matt or Lainie did. Their son had a way of anticipating and quietly meeting Justin’s needs, which was useful as Justin was reluctant to vocalize what he wanted himself. Clay also adeptly explained their family rules and routines without pandering or talking down to Justin, which Matt felt like maybe he himself did too much. Additionally, Clay’s forthright willingness to directly call Justin out actually did wonders. Justin took correction from Clay better than he did from Matt or Lainie, even if it did often devolve into a round of obscenities tossed back and forth between them. Since there was never any true malice behind the words, Lainie and Matt chose to let the foul language slide.

Initially, Matt had offered to convert his downstairs office into a bedroom for Justin (because asking two 17-year-old boys with such stark personality differences to share a bedroom was just inviting trouble). Clay, however, had insisted on sharing his bedroom. “I don’t trust Justin” was the only reason given. 

“Honey,” Lainie had chided. “We need to establish a baseline of acceptance and openness. We’re not worried about him stealing anything.”

“No, Mom!” Clay had protested. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t trust him not to run off. You don’t know him like I do.” How exactly Clay expected to prevent that action by sharing his bedroom was never quite made clear.

When they had asked Justin if he would like his own space, he had shrugged and said he didn’t mind sharing, as long as it was okay with Clay. “Someone needs to look after his dumb ass,” he had concluded. 

Matt and Lainie had exchanged exasperated looks. Who exactly were the parents in this scenario?

If anything, Justin and Clay’s closeness actually impeded Matt and Lainie from forming a strong attachment with Justin themselves. If the four of them were all home together, Clay and Justin were likely to hang out with each other and blatantly ignore the adults. Matt was surprised at the twinges of jealousy he sometimes felt when he watched them interact. He was excluded from their private world, and the way they communicated without using words sometimes freaked him out. But, deep down, Matt knew everything was as it should be. He was thankful that Clay finally had a sibling and that they got along so well.

All the same, Matt tried hard to spend time alone with each boy. Since he didn’t teach any Friday classes and Justin was in summer school, Matt took Clay to the matinee movie at the Crestmont every week. Finding something to do with Justin was a little more difficult. While he was happy to go along with whatever Matt suggested, Matt really wanted to do something that was actually meaningful to Justin. One day, on his commute home from campus, Matt saw a sign for a sporting goods store, and an idea struck him.

When he arrived home, he proudly sat the brand new basketball down in front of Justin at the dinner table where the kid sat working on his algebra assignment. 

“You want to shoot some hoops at the park with me after dinner?”

Justin’s mouth dropped open. “You play?” Justin spluttered. “Clay… well, he's kind of shit at sports, and I figured… I thought he got that from you, maybe?” Justin quickly fell all over himself to lessen the blow. “I mean, no offense, you’re probably great. I just thought... it doesn’t seem like your thing?”

Matt laughed. “You’re right. I’m no athlete and Clay–, well, it’s probably genetic. Poor kid.” He sat down in the neighboring chair and studied Justin thoughtfully. “But, you know, if Clay had ever shown the slightest inkling in sports, it would have _become_ my thing. And I'm an academic. I like to learn new things, stretch my horizons and all that. Plus, I have the former captain of the Liberty High Tigers to get me up to speed on the basics, right?”

Justin, eyes suddenly downcast, focused on his paper and began furiously erasing the last equation he had written. “I’m not captain anymore. I’m not sure I’m even still on the team.”

“Why not? If you want to play in the fall, there’s no reason you can’t. You have the talent, and if there’s any pushback at the school, Lainie will make sure that it’s not an issue. You enjoyed playing, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I liked it." Justin set down his pencil with a slight upward turn to his lips. “Everything was so… simple when I played. I do miss it.” 

“All right, perfect.” Matt pushed back his chair. “You should get together with some of your former teammates to practice this summer.”

“Yeah, Zach would probably like that.”

“In the meantime, you can show me the ropes,” Matt suggested.

Justin’s laugh was openly exuberant. “Yeah, okay.” He picked up the basketball with reverence. “Thanks for the ball, Mr. Jensen.”

And, just like that, Matt found something he could share with Justin. Their games mostly consisted of Matt making a fool out of himself while Justin patiently explained the rules of the sport and showed him various shooting and dribbling techniques. When they played one-on-one, Justin clearly held back, claiming that he was rusty. Matt knew the kid mostly just took it easy on him. At the end of each session, Matt always encouraged Justin to practice in earnest so that he could take a breather. Really, he just wanted an excuse to admire Justin’s agility and grace on the court without an “old man” holding him back from giving his full effort.

In preparation for basketball season, Matt checked out every book the local library had on the sport. He looked into what supplies Justin would need in order to join the team. He watched video highlights of past Liberty High School basketball games; each time he caught sight of Justin, he felt a little thrill of pride. 

It would be nice to attend one of Justin’s games as a family. Matt would probably have to bribe Clay in order to get him to willingly set foot at a Liberty High sports event, but, then again, maybe not… When it came to Justin, Clay was willing to bend in areas he had previously proved intractable. And Lainie… Well, she was already purchasing Liberty High Tigers hats, sweatshirts, jackets, and memorabilia. 

When the school year started, they asked Justin if there was a way to purchase a season-long family pass for all his games. 

Clay rushed to put in his two cents. "Don't let them come, Justin. They're going to embarrass themselves and mortify you. You know that, right?"

"Shut up, Clay." Justin smiled at Lainie and then at Matt. "I'd like you to come, if you want."

"You'll regret it," Clay warned.

"No, I won't." Justin pulled up the Liberty High Athletics webpage on his phone to get ticket information.

"Fine," Clay caved. "But I'm not doing any of those stupid cheers or chants or anything."

"Wait, _you're_ actually going to come too?"

"I guess," Clay huffed. "Under protest."

"Mm-hmm," Matt murmured knowingly. 

Against all odds, they had become a basketball family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • This ended kind of randomly, because I arbitrarily split this topic into three parts because it was getting quite wordy and I didn't want to go too long without any updates.
> 
> • I need some scenes of Justin and Matt bonding in season 3. Who's with me?


	14. A Father's Love #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt reflects on the challenges of adopting a 17-year-old boy and contemplates what it means to open his heart up to a second son. Part 2 of 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: July through September post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: References to past child abuse
> 
> This chapter makes direct references to events in chapters 10 and 12.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, **14** , 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Part Two**

“You know Justin, it’d be a lot easier if you called me Matt instead of Mr. Jensen. Even my students call me Matt.” 

“Okay, Matt,” Justin said immediately.

Well, if Matt had known it could be that simple, he would have suggested it weeks ago. He didn’t want to push his luck and suggest Justin call him “Dad,” but he hoped that, someday, Justin would be comfortable bestowing that title on him.

July was coming to an end. They had almost made it through the summer. There had been struggles (Seth, chief among them), but Matt was prepared to pat himself on the back. Maybe he and Lainie should teach a master class on parenting or give a talk on the rewards of adopting an older child.

Then came August. August was hell. 

It started with Clay. He began showing fresh signs of depression and anxiety. He stayed in bed late on the weekends. He didn’t want to watch movies with the family or play video games with Justin or even read his comic books in the solitude of his bedroom. He was temperamental and withdrawn. Any time that Matt tried to approach him to talk, he was promptly shut out (sometimes literally with a door-to-the-face).

“Do you think we should try to put Clay in therapy again?” Lainie asked Matt worriedly one evening. “I know we said we were going to give Justin some time to settle in before starting him in counseling, but maybe we should have been more proactive with Clay.”

“You know how resistant he was in the past to therapy,” Matt pointed out.

“Yes, but he’s been through some serious trauma since then, Matt.”

It was a good point, and they jointly decided that they would talk with Clay about the idea. But then things got busy at work for Lainie and Matt had college orientation sessions to lead for his department and seminars to attend and lesson plans for the new semester to design. Clay’s behavior marginally improved, which made therapy seem less pressing. Matt and Lainie didn’t forget about their plans to talk with their son, but the talk was indefinitely postponed all the same.

A week before Justin’s adoption, what Matt had thought was just a minor sibling hiccup between the boys turned into a nightmare. At an informal family meeting, the boys had come forward and given one dreadful confession after another.

Justin was still addicted to heroin. He had been buying drugs all summer and regularly shooting up in his bedroom.

Clay had almost killed himself in March. Justin had stopped him.

Justin questioned if Matt and Lainie really wanted to adopt him. He still didn’t believe that he had a permanent place in their home.

Clay had been hallucinating Hannah Baker (a dead girl) and was currently having hallucinations of Tyler Down (a foiled school-shooter). Clay thought it wasn’t that big of an issue.

Matt’s world came screeching to a halt. To think that he had been preparing to buy a bottle of champagne to toast their parenting success! 

They weren't good parents. They were terrible parents.

The only silver lining? At least they still had children to parent. Not every mother and father could say the same.

 

* * *

 

“Clay’s brain scan is normal. I’m going to refer you to a psychiatrist.”

Matt had never felt such sweet relief as he did hearing those words.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, Matt, we’re going to have to shuffle some things around to make this work. But we can make it work.”

“It’s a lot, Lainie.”

“It’s necessary, Matt.”

“All right.” After their boys’ confessions, Matt was more than willing to consent to all of Lainie’s ideas—no matter how excessive he would have otherwise thought they were. Their calendars, already packed, became filled to the brim with appointments for cognitive therapy, family counseling, addiction counseling, and a medically supervised detox program for Justin.

Life for the Jensen family became chaotic and hectic. 

 

* * *

 

On the morning of the fourth day of school, Clay stumbled his way into the kitchen and promptly leaned his forehead and upper arm against the fridge. Matt studied him apprehensively. _What now?_ These kids were going to be the death of him.

“What’s going on, son?” Matt asked, dreading the answer. Next to him, Lainie sat down the folder she had been perusing and turned to Clay in alarm. “Clay?”

Clay pulled himself away from the fridge as if it required a massive effort. “I don’t think Justin should go to school today.”

“Is he sick?” Lainie rose from her chair. “I’m going to get the thermometer.”

“No… not that kind of sick."

Matt dropped his phone on the table. 

Lainie reflexively grabbed the edge of the countertop, her knuckles turning ghost white. “Heroin? You think he shot up?” she whispered.

Justin had only recently made it past the physical symptoms of withdrawal. Matt dreaded him having to go through that agony all over again.

“No,” Clay reassured them. “But I think he really wants to… like _really, really_ wants to. He was up all night.”

“Oh, honey,” Lainie said. “Why didn’t you come get us? Did _you_ get any sleep?”

“A little,” Clay said, shrugging. “Once I get some caffeine, though, I’ll be good to go.”

“That’s not healthy, but I can’t fault your commitment to your studies.” She enveloped Clay in a hug, which he quickly wiggled out of in his singular pursuit of a cup of coffee.

“I’ll go check in on Justin,” Matt told his wife, trying not to sound as worried as he felt. 

When Matt entered the boys’ bedroom, he found Justin on his bed with the fingers of his left hand digging into both of his eye sockets, his right hand knocking an irregular rhythm out against the wall. His bed covers were a mess. He’d clearly been thrashing around all night.

“Hey, kid,” Matt said softly, levering himself down on the side of the bed.

When Justin pulled his hand away from his face, Matt could immediately tell that Clay was right. Justin’s eyes were bloodshot, his throat worked spasmodically, and he trembled like he had ants under his skin.

“I’m getting up,” Justin quickly said, moving to do just that before Matt gently pushed him back down. Matt had seen Justin look worse (very recently, in fact), but, all the same, he was clearly in no shape to go to school. There was at least one heroin dealer at Liberty High, and he didn't want Justin exposed to any temptation.

“You’re staying home, Justin.” 

“It’s only the fourth day. I can't skip."

“Trust me, it’s better to miss a day early on in the semester. You’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Clay can check in with your teachers and find out what assignments you missed.” 

What went unsaid: _"You’ll miss a whole lot more than one day if you relapse again."_ Although they had agreed to enroll Justin in an outpatient program for his heroin addiction, both he and Lainie had decided that if Justin didn’t show immediate progress, they would pull him out of school and admit him into a long-term residential treatment center. 

They weren’t taking any chances with his life. While they had several boxes of Naloxone in the house, and they had instructed Clay on how to administer it in case of a potential overdose, it wasn’t something they ever wanted to have to use.

Justin again tried to crawl out of bed. Matt helped him sit up and then gripped Justin’s chin lightly with his fingers, forcing him to look into his eyes. “No arguments. I’ll stay home to look after you.”

Justin shook his head. “I’m not sick! You don’t need to stay.” He looked at Matt with what Clay rightfully described as his “puppy dog eyes.” It might not be an outright attempt at manipulation, but, if it was, Matt wasn’t going to fall for it. He couldn’t trust the kid so soon into his recovery. He would hire an actual babysitter before leaving Justin alone.

“Addiction _is_ a sickness, Justin, and you don’t need to be ashamed to ask for help. Besides, I only have one class today. My graduate assistant can cover it for me.” He stood up. “I’m going to go give her a call and then change into some running clothes. I want you to do the same. Let’s work off some of that nervous energy together, okay?”

Matt exited the room before Justin could raise any objections. He knew that the teenager was no doubt exhausted, but Justin was not going to be able to sleep while he was so keyed up and tense. Exercise would hopefully release some endorphins and decrease Justin’s stress hormones. It was a helpful coping strategy that his addiction counselor had taught them.

The morning run went well. Matt tired out before Justin did, so it turned into a leisurely hike for him while Justin ran laps around the local park. Justin’s natural athleticism made exercise a perfect outlet, a way for him to get a safe "high." 

They walked back home in companionable silence. Justin took a shower while Matt made him breakfast. Later, Matt sat at the table, pretending to look at emails on his phone but actually covertly watching Justin from the corner of his eye as he scarfed down his sausage and eggs. He seemed more relaxed, but he still looked run down.

“I think I want to try to sleep now,” Justin announced as he put his dishes in the sink. 

“Okay."

Justin headed up to his bedroom. Matt grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and then pulled out a heat pack from the linen closet. Sensory inputs sometimes offered a distraction from the mental cravings of addiction. Over the past few weeks, they had tried just about every trick in the book. Many of them offered no relief. Others were only sporadically helpful. None, at least, did any harm. 

When Matt entered the bedroom, Justin was lying sprawled out on top of the blankets, staring up at the ceiling. Matt placed the ice and heat packs, along with a towel, beside Justin on the bed. 

“Do you want some music?” Matt asked. “Or _The Lost World_?” He reached to pick the book off of the desk, where it sat ready. Reading to Justin had been Clay’s brilliant idea, and, of all the ones they had tried, it still worked the best. The boys had made it through _Jurassic Park_ and were already halfway through the sequel. 

“I don’t need music. And, no offense, but _Jurassic Park_ is kind of Clay’s thing. He’d probably be pissed off if he missed a section.”

Matt laughed. “Clay’s probably read that book a half dozen times by now. No spoilers left for him.” _Clay’s thing._ Matt knew that what Justin was really saying was that it was _their_ thing. His kids were fiercely possessive about their bond with each other. 

__Matt sat the book back down on the desk, drew the curtains, and then sank down onto the floor by Justin’s bed._ _

__“You don’t need to stay,” Justin mumbled sleepily. “I’m good now.”_ _

__Admittedly, Matt did feel too old to sit on the floor for a stretch of several hours. He had thought he was long past the bedside vigil years ago, ever since Clay had stopped needing someone nearby to fight off monsters in the middle of the night. But he had never gotten a chance to do that for Justin, and he doubted anyone else had been there to do it either. How many times had Justin been scared or hurt and had no one to comfort him?_ _

__“I’ll be right here if you need me.” Matt closed his eyes. He needed to mentally work out the kinks in the lecture he had planned for his Monday class anyway. This would be the perfect opportunity. And if he could watch as his kid fell asleep—safe and whole and protected—then that was an added perk._ _

 

* * *

 

__“Lainie and Matt Jensen, here to sign out Justin Jensen. His name might be listed as Justin Foley. We recently requested the last name be changed in your system."_ _

__The school receptionist nodded and started typing in the information. “Relationship to the child?”_ _

__“Mother and father,” Lainie said. “It should be noted in his record.”_ _

__“Okay, yep, got it. I’ll just need to see ID.”_ _

__They handed their driver’s licenses over. The receptionist nodded. “I’ll send a slip with our student aid to Justin’s classroom. It’ll be a few minutes.” She printed out a form for them to sign._ _

__“Mr. Jensen?”_ _

__Matt finished his signature and turned to find the basketball coach approaching him, hand outstretched. Matt shook it warmly. They had never had the opportunity to meet, but Matt easily recognized the coach from his picture on the Liberty High School Athletics webpage._ _

__“I'm Joseph Patrick, coach of the basketball team.” Coach Patrick reached for Lainie’s hand next. “And history teacher,” he added as an afterthought. “I had your kid in my history class… Clay, was it?”_ _

__“Yeah, that’s our boy,” Matt said._ _

__“Real quiet little sucker, but whip-smart. Good kid.”_ _

__“Thank you,” Lainie said, beaming._ _

__“I heard you two adopted one of my athletes, Justin Foley... or Jensen, whatever he's going by these days.”_ _

__“Yes, we did,” Matt said with pride. “Justin’s very much looking forward to playing for you this year. We appreciate the opportunity you’re giving him.”_ _

__“Mm-hmm. Well, I need a strong line-up. I’m happy to have him back. Just make sure he doesn’t miss any practice this year, would you?”_ _

__Lainie smiled. “You bet.”_ _

__Coach Patrick leaned against the desk. “I got to say… Justin... well, that boy’s quite a handful, and he’s the definition of a troubled kid if I ever saw one. But it used to be that getting him to say two words about what was going on at home was like pulling teeth. Now, if I ask, it’s hard to get him to shut up about the two of you.”_ _

__“Really?” Lainie glanced at Matt._ _

__Matt frowned. “Nothing bad, I hope?”_ _

__“Only good things, which from a teenage boy at this school is practically a miracle.” Coach Patrick gave a humorless chuckle. “The conversations I’ve overheard in my locker rooms… They’d make you want to go straight to confession and weep for the future of humanity if you heard ‘em.”_ _

__“No doubt.” Matt clapped the man on the shoulder amicably._ _

__Coach Patrick offered Lainie another handshake. “You're doing good work. Justin’s a lucky kid.”_ _

__“It was lovely to meet you.”_ _

__“Same, same,” Coach Patrick murmured distractedly as he walked off._ _

 

* * *

 

__Meeting Amber Foley was a surreal experience. Like invisible dark matter, the existence of which was only known because of the observable effects of its gravity, everything Matt knew about Amber Foley he knew from the effects of her absence on her son. It wasn’t a good impression._ _

__But when Clay texted him that Justin’s mother had turned up at their house, Matt tried to be optimistic about seeing Amber face-to-face for the first time. He hoped that he was mistaken about her, that there was indeed something redeemable in her. After all, Justin, in the times that he had spoken about his mother, had only ever said positive things about her._ _

__It did not go well, by any definition. Amber Foley had been Justin’s mother for 17 years, but it took less than 17 minutes for Matt to conclude that he didn’t want her left alone with any member of his family. He was secretly glad when he could escort Amber to his door._ _

__On the street, Amber’s boyfriend sat idling in an old Ford truck. The window on the driver’s side was rolled down, and the man shouted for Amber to hurry up before they had even made it out to the porch steps._ _

__“Wait a second, Amber,” Matt said. “Before you go, I have to ask, how did you know Justin was living here?”_ _

__“I told you. Social services.” She rushed down the porch stairs. Matt hurriedly followed after her._ _

__“I know that’s a lie,” Matt called at her retreating back, hoping she would stop._ _

__Amber paused and turned to face him. “Excuse me?”_ _

__“Social services would have had to contact us to get permission to tell you our address, and my wife just confirmed with them that you never spoke to them. If you really want to see your son again, you need to tell me the truth right now.”_ _

__The car horn blared from the street. Amber waved her hand dismissively at the driver. He honked the horn one more time and then yelled out the window, “Amber, get your ass in the truck! I’m going to be late!”_ _

__“Hold on!” she yelled back. “Look,” she told Matt. “I didn’t want Justin to know this, but I’ve actually been back in town for a while. You can’t tell him. I don’t want him to think that I didn’t look for him right away.”_ _

__“You still haven’t answered my question,” Matt said patiently._ _

__“I wanted to see my baby, okay?” Amber glanced back at the truck and held up her index finger. A string of curses was thrown their way, but Amber ignored them. “I thought that if Justin hadn’t split town, he’d be in school. So I waited outside the high school, and I saw him getting a ride with your son. I convinced Carl to follow the car here. I thought Justin was just crashing at your house. He used to do that with another boy all the time.”_ _

__Matt studied her. It was a reasonable explanation, he supposed, even if it was five months overdue. Even if it was technically stalking. “You can’t show up like this again, Amber.”_ _

__“All right, fine. I’ll call next time.”_ _

__A car door slammed. Amber’s boyfriend marched towards them. “Amber, I’m not fucking kidding! I’ve got to get to work.” He grabbed her elbow, which she promptly and angrily pulled out of his grasp. With no further words to Matt, Amber turned and obediently marched to the car._ _

__The man (Carl?) glared at Matt. “Don’t be making eyes at my girlfriend.”_ _

__Matt didn’t dignify that with a response. He stood watching as the man got back into his truck, started the engine, and sped off._ _

 

* * *

 

__When he came back into the house, Matt found his wife sitting on the couch, staring emptily at the wall. He collapsed beside her and told her about his conversation with Amber._ _

__“So, this isn’t going to go away, then?” Lainie asked._ _

__“Doesn’t look like it." Matt sighed. “How’s Justin doing?”_ _

__“He was really shaken, Matt. God, his face after she left…”_ _

“It must have been quite the shock. _I’m_ shocked. Somehow, she never seemed real to me.” 

__“Me neither,” Lainie said softly. “Her effects on Justin were certainly real, and I know he talks about her fondly sometimes… But, when I saw her today, I honestly didn’t know whether to hug her or throttle her.”_ _

 

* * *

 

__That evening, before bedtime, Matt knocked on the boys’ door._ _

__“Come in,” Justin called._ _

__Clay was sitting on his bed, headphones stuck in both ears with the other end plugged into his phone. Justin sat in a mirror image position on his own bed, typing (most likely texting) on his phone._ _

__Clay slid the headphones off his ears. “What’s up?”_ _

__Matt smiled. “Just coming to say goodnight.” He went to Clay first, pressing a kiss to his temple. Pulling back, he pointed to his son’s headphones. “If I can hear the music, it means it’s too loud. You don’t want to lose your hearing before you’re thirty, kid.”_ _

__Clay rolled his eyes but he held up his phone to show that he was decreasing the volume. Matt gave him a silent thumbs-up and then went to Justin’s bed. He sat down on the edge; Justin scooted his legs over to give him more room._ _

__“Do you want to talk about today?” Matt asked lightly._ _

“Not really.” Justin set his phone facedown on his bed. He smiled at Matt—that charming, innocent smile that claimed, _Everything’s fine. You don’t need to worry about me._ Matt had once been taken in by that smile; now he knew that it was Justin’s go-to defense mechanism. How badly he wanted to tell him, _There’s no need to dissemble with us. It’s okay to let us see that you’re hurting._

__“That’s fine,” Matt said instead. “You know... If you want to see your mother again, Lainie and I are open to supervised visits. If you don't want to see her, that's perfectly okay too. You let us know in your own time.”_ _

__Justin nodded. “Thanks.” And again, that crooked smile._ _

_God, kid. I know why you used to have to pretend everything was okay, but what saved you back then is unnecessary now._

__Matt stood up. Not caring that he was repeating himself, he said, "Whenever you’re ready to talk, we’re here, Justin. Anytime."_ _

__He leaned over and kissed the top of Justin’s head._ _

__“Night, kid.”_ _

__“Night.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • If it seems like I skimmed or skipped over the Adoption Day and how therapy is going for Clay & Justin, it's because I did. I want to devote full chapters to both of those topics so I didn't focus on them much at all here.
> 
> • My one-parter has become a three-parter. I didn't realize I had so many thoughts about Matt Jensen???


	15. A Father's Love #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt reflects on the challenges of adopting a 17-year-old boy and contemplates what it means to open his heart up to a second son. Part 3 of 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: September post 2x13
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: References to past child abuse
> 
> This chapter picks up immediately after Chapter 14.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, **15** , 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

**Part Three**

Justin was the first of the boys up on Friday morning. As he ate his scrambled eggs, he leaned against Matt's shoulder to view the daily crossword puzzle and offer potential (though often ludicrous) solutions. Hearing Justin's suggestions never failed to make Matt laugh.

Friday evening passed no differently than any other; both teenagers were as chatty and ornery as ever as they discussed their weekend plans and raided the kitchen.

Saturday was lazy. There was a morning therapy session for Clay, but the rest of the day was wide open. Nearly half the basketball team came over for a marathon video game session with Justin while Clay, claiming he couldn't handle all the "broness," left to hang out with Tony. Matt and Lainie chose to stay home and work on some long put-off household projects. They wanted to be available in case Justin decided that he was ready to talk about Amber. They didn't try to force a conversation, and because Justin showed no outward signs that he was bothered or distressed by his mother's reappearance, Lainie and Matt chose to let it be.

Amber Foley, by contrast, was not quite so patient. Mere hours after she had left their house on Thursday afternoon, she had called Matt’s cell phone asking when she could see her son again. He had informed her that they had to speak to Justin first before they would open up the possibility of arranging a meeting. She had called again the next morning and the next afternoon and then the day after and the day after that. Eventually, Matt stopped answering.

“Why doesn’t she call me?” Lainie disgruntledly asked as they sat on the couch together after dinner on Monday. “I’ll make it clear, in no uncertain terms, that we will contact her when we are ready—not the other way around.” She paused and her eyes lit up with that fire that Matt found so attractive. “I’ll threaten her with a restraining order.”

Matt put his arm around her wife and pulled her against his chest. “I think that’s exactly why she calls me instead of you.” He nuzzled her hair with his chin. “That’s why I love you though.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you show me how much you love me.”

Matt knew what that tone of voice meant. He pulled back, one hand moving toward her thigh and the other cradling her chin. He pressed his lips against hers. She tasted of mint tea, intoxicating and sweet. Lainie fell backward and Matt pressed her against the couch cushions as her hands gripped his shirt. Things were just getting heated when there was a polite cough from across the room.

“Um,” Justin said. 

Matt pushed himself back up to a seated position. Justin openly stared at them, his hand on the top of one of the armchairs. 

Lainie frantically straightened her clothes. Matt, equally flustered, re-did the top button of his shirt. He wasn’t embarrassed about showing physical affection to his wife in front of the boys, but if it had been Clay who had walked into the room, the kid would have ducked out in two seconds flat. He certainly would not have stood there and watched them as thoughtfully (or wistfully?) as Justin was doing now.

“Justin,” Lainie said. “Everything okay?”

Justin came around the chair and sat down. “Is this a bad time to talk about my mom?”

“No, no,” Matt rushed to say. “This is the perfect time.”

“Cool.” Justin slumped back in the chair. “When you said I could have supervised visits with my mom, what did you mean? Like a social worker would have to be there?”

“No,” Matt said. “Not a social worker. Either Lainie or I would be present; that’s all I meant. We don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone with her yet.” _Or ever again._

Justin chewed on his lip but didn’t say anything. Matt wished he wouldn’t do that; his lips were already so chapped and dry.

“We understand if your feelings are complicated, Justin," Lainie said. “It’s okay to not know what you want to do.”

Justin shook his head. “I do know. I want to see her." He looked between Lainie and Matt, weighing his words. Finally, his eyes rested on Lainie’s. “What you said to my mom the other day… I don’t want you to think…” He trailed off, wringing his hands. “She wasn't always like that. She’s had a shitty life. The shittiest.”

Matt held his tongue. Whether directly or through inaction, Amber Foley had subjected her son to atrocious violence and privation. Hearing Justin defend her… It was hard to stomach, but Matt had to let it pass for the time being. It would do no good to imply that Justin’s feelings about his mother were invalid or wrong. 

“We understand,” Lainie managed with a strained voice.

“So, it’s really okay with you if I want to see her?” Justin asked tentatively.

“Yes,” Matt confirmed. “We aren’t trying to prevent you from having a relationship with her. We know she’s important to you.”

Justin’s face brightened. “Okay, yeah, I want to see her. But it’s not because I’m not happy here or anything! I guess I-, I just want to see that she's okay. That her new boyfriend's not…” Justin didn’t finish the sentence.

“Hurting her?” Lainie asked gently.

Justin shrugged. Matt could see his walls beginning to come up. Before he closed down on them completely, Matt spoke up. “We don’t want that either, Justin. If we find out anyone’s hurting her, we will do everything in our power to make sure that person is brought to justice. And if she needs help—with shelter or employment or substance abuse—we can offer assistance in those areas. Maybe we can have a discussion about a rehab program.”

“She won’t get help!” Looking horrified, Justin pushed himself to the edge of his seat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean– That’s nice of you to offer. I’m sorry.”

“Honey, it’s okay,” Lainie soothed. “It’s okay to tell us what you’re thinking, whatever it is.”

Justin tripped over his words in his attempt to explain. “I tried to help her, I swear I did! I tried so many times to get her clean. And she's been to rehab, a whole bunch of times, but it never sticks... because as soon as her newest boyfriend leaves her, she gets strung out and depressed – really, really depressed. Like, she won't get out of bed or eat or go to work. Drugs are all she cares about when she's like that."

 _She should have cared about you, kid, above anything, and above anyone else._ “It wasn’t your responsibility to get her help, Justin,” Matt said. “Not then and not now. You can let us carry that weight. You can trust us with her.”

“I do.” Justin grinned. “You’re like the most trustworthy people I’ve ever met.”

Matt smiled. “Thank you.” 

Lainie leaned forward and steepled her fingers. “Now, Justin, as for how this will work… We need to decide how often you want to meet with your mom.”

“Once a week?” Justin suggested.

Matt’s heart almost leapt out of his chest. They had been thinking more like once a month to start… But, seeing Justin's hopeful face, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Maybe every other week,” Lainie compromised. It seemed Matt wasn’t the only one unwilling to burst Justin’s bubble. 

Justin nodded. 

“We thought we could meet your mother somewhere neutral,” Lainie said. “Like a restaurant. That way we could all have lunch and then you could chat. Would that be okay?”

Justin shifted restlessly. “She might not have money to pay.”

“We’ll pay. Our treat.”

Justin jumped up and darted around the coffee table. He practically tackled Lainie with his hug. “Oh,” she said in surprise.

Justin quickly let her go (Matt was sure Lainie had wanted to hold on a little longer) before giving Matt a slightly more restrained hug. Matt cherished it for the brief moment it lasted.

Then Justin was rushing out of the room. “I’m going to go tell Clay!” he called back.

Lainie was the first to say something. “I don’t know how to feel about what just happened.”

“Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Matt rubbed his forehead. “Are we doing the right thing? How do we know we’re not exposing him to a fresh round of emotional trauma?”

“But wouldn’t it be worse to prevent him from seeing her now that he knows it’s an option?” Lainie asked. “To let him continue to worry that she’s being abused or wonder if she’s dead… Matt, that’s too cruel.”

“You’re right.” As much as Matt hated to admit it, they couldn’t deny Justin his past. They couldn’t pretend his mother didn’t exist or refuse him the respect and dignity of a choice in this situation.

Matt offered Lainie his hand. She took it, squeezing tightly. Matt instantly felt more confident; she had always been his anchor. “I’ll meet with Amber to see if she’s willing to work with us.”

“I have a list of rules for her,” Lainie said, leaning her head on his shoulder. “About ten pages of them.”

Matt laughed. “I didn’t expect anything less.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, Matt stared across the café table at Amber as she quietly sipped her second cup of coffee. She had arrived 20 minutes late for their meeting. Dressed in her work uniform, she was more put together than she had been the first time Matt had met her. She was more attentive as well, although equally as guarded and curt.

She had carefully listened as Matt went over the rules that he and Lainie had decided upon as a condition for her to see her son. There were many of them, but Matt focused on the most important ones: Amber couldn’t show up drunk or high, nor bring drugs or weapons to their meetings. She had to show up alone; they would not permit Justin to be exposed to any of her boyfriends or friends. She was, under no circumstances, to ask Justin for money. She wasn’t allowed any contact with her son outside of their proposed meetings. She needed to avoid discussing any of a dozen topics that Lainie had typed out for her on a sheet of legal paper (among the topics: drugs [Lainie had listed every street drug she could find the name of], current or past boyfriends/husbands, domestic abuse, sex... ). His wife was thorough. The list of rules read like a formal contract, which in some ways it was—they planned to diligently enforce all the stipulations included therein.

After Matt had finished talking, Amber had contemplated his words as she drained her first cup of coffee and eaten the blueberry muffins he had bought her. She had asked for a second cup, and, even though it had come more than ten minutes previously, she still hadn’t agreed to the deal. Matt was starting to get impatient.

“What do you think about our offer?” he prompted.

Amber finally spoke. “What if I need to talk to Justin in private?”

The question set Matt on edge. Why was that so important to her? They had made a mistake allowing privacy the first time. It was too much of an opportunity for secrets and manipulation; it opened the door for more damage to be done.

“Anything you need to say to Justin you can feel comfortable saying in front of me or my wife."

Amber scoffed. “Does that woman really have to be involved?”

“That woman’s name is Lainie, and she loves Justin. So, yes, sometimes, she will come. Sometimes, it will be me. Sometimes, it will be both of us.” 

Matt didn’t know if Amber was drawing this out on purpose or if she really had concerns and didn’t know how to express them. “Look, Amber. If you consent to follow our rules, you can see Justin twice a month. And the rest of the time, it’s our privilege to look after him. He’ll be safe and happy. You won't need to worry about him.”

“I don't worry."

_And that’s the root of the problem, isn’t it?_

Amber curled the now empty coffee mug close to her body and let out a drawn-out sigh. “I don't agree to all these stupid rules. I'm only asking to see my son. You and your wife... You're worse than Family Services."

“If you don't agree, then you can’t see him. It’s as simple as that.”

“I’m Justin’s _mother._ I have rights.”

“You don’t have rights. My wife and I are Justin’s parents now, and choosing to let you see him is an allowance on our part. It’s not a right or a negotiation. We get to decide how this will work.”

Amber pushed her cup away angrily. “You can’t cut me out of his life! I gave birth to him. I'm the one who had to deal with all his shit and blood and puke. Do you know how hard it is to sleep with a baby always screaming his head off over nothing? I had to work three jobs so that I could afford to buy him diapers and formula. And when he got older, I constantly had to play referee between Justin and my boyfriends until, one by one, they couldn't take it anymore and left us. After all of that, you think you can just swoop in and adopt him? Well, I raised him. A good, strong, handsome boy. He turned out okay, didn't he?"

"More than okay," Matt said with conviction.

Amber face puckered. "But suddenly I'm not good enough to see him? Justin and me, we had a lot of good times, you know. Did he tell you about that? Or did you try to convince him that _everything_ in his past was crap because he didn't grow up rich and pampered like your kid?" 

Matt sadly shook his head. "Amber, it's not about money, and we're not trying to turn Justin against you. He's told us some nice stories about his childhood. But, you and I both know that it wasn't always 'good times' in your house, not for him."

Amber rolled her eyes. “The bad stuff... anything Justin _told_ you was bad... it was all because his teenage hormones kicked in, and he started a dick-measuring contest with every guy I brought home. I tried to protect him, but he would keep provoking them, over nothing. It wasn’t my fault that my boyfriends didn’t like him. Justin was always itching to pick a fight. He was asking for it when they–"

“Stop!” Matt commanded, pounding his fist on the table and making the utensils jump with a metallic clatter. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Matt had tried to sit stoically and hear Amber out, if only so that he could glimpse her true colors and determine if she posed any immediate threat to Justin's welfare. But he couldn't do this. Couldn't listen to her disparage _his_ children or offer up hollow excuses for her own crimes. He certainly refused to hear her imply, for even a single second, that the violence brought against Justin had been his own fault.

__

__

Matt took a breath, trying to keep his blood pressure from rising any further. “Your boyfriends _abused_ him, Amber," he said, deathly quiet. " _You_ abused him, your own son. That is unforgivable.”

“I didn’t. He was my baby boy. I would never have hurt him; I needed him. But he took off, just like every guy I've ever loved, just like his father did. And he didn’t even say goodbye.” Amber began to silently cry, big fat teardrops that mixed with her mascara to create black stains down her face. 

Matt's stomach roiled, and he felt raw and bruised inside. He considered himself a champion of humanity, and he still was, en masse, but he couldn't find it in himself to dredge up even a modicum of sympathy for the individual sitting before him. He had never wanted to believe that a mother could be so selfish, could be so cruelly apathetic. But the proof was here and, worse, it was in all the hurt and pain she had left behind in Justin.

It was time to wrap this up.

“Our rules are perfectly reasonable,” Matt said. “And the fact that you are not willing to agree to them confirms for me that you’re working an angle. My wife and I, we’re not pushovers, and Justin is not a pawn in whatever scheme you’ve got going on—money or drugs or whatever the hell it is.”

Amber stood up angrily, petulantly throwing her napkin at him. “This is ridiculous. You don’t know anything about me!”

“Sit down!” Matt knew instinctually that she would obey him. It was sad—the way her life had clearly been dominated and controlled by men—and he knew that he shouldn’t take advantage of it now, but he was beyond the point of caring.

“Here’s my final offer,” he said. “Twice a month, I’ll pay your bus or taxi fare to a nice restaurant. You show up, follow our rules to the letter, and let Justin see that you’re okay. If you can do all that, I’ll pay you $100 for each visit. If you refuse this offer and try to contact Justin in any other way, then Lainie and I will take a restraining order out against you. That's not a threat, Amber. That's a promise.”

Matt felt dirty for suggesting a payoff. A part of him even felt like he was sinking into the depths of depravity right alongside Amber. But stronger than shame was the memory of Justin’s unbridled excitement when he had first seen Amber standing in their home, the memory of Justin gratefully embracing him at the news that he would get to see his mother on a continual basis.

Amber stared at him blankly. “You really care about him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. So does my wife.”

Amber dabbed at her face, which was now a broken mosaic of perspiration, cheap makeup, and crocodile tears. “Justin deserves a good life."

Finally, something they could agree on. “Yes, he does.”

Amber sank back into her chair. “Okay, I’ll do it.” She paused. “For $200.”

Matt wasn’t surprised at the counteroffer. He didn’t even blink. “Agreed.”

There were so many things that he would have liked to say to this woman, but Matt saw now that she was incapable of ever understanding them. Amber Foley had never known what it meant to be a parent. But Matt did.

Matt paid the bill, left a tip, and then went home to his sons.

 

* * *

 

When he entered the house, he heard what sounded like a sports event. He removed his jacket and then followed the noise to its source. Justin was fully reclined on the small couch in the den watching a basketball game on the TV.

“I didn’t miss the start of the season, did I?” Matt racked his brain. “I thought that the NBA games start up in mid-October?”

He gestured for Justin to make room and then he sat down beside his son. “I’m impressed," Justin said."You didn’t even used to know the difference between the NBA and the NCAA and that’s, like, basic.”

Matt smiled. “And, if I recall correctly, you were the one who substituted paprika for cinnamon when you tried making snickerdoodles. That’s totally basic.”

Justin laughed. “It _looked_ like cinnamon! God, I thought Clay was going to murder me.”

“He’ll definitely never let you live it down,” Matt agreed. He settled back comfortably on the cushions. “So, did we jump into the future or is this an old basketball game?”

“Old. Did you know that you guys have TV channels where you can watch past games whenever you want? It’s awesome.”

“No, I did not know that. But I’m glad you’re making use of them.”

A few minutes later, Clay wandered into the den. He stared in shock. “Are you guys watching basketball?”

“Yep,” Justin said.

“Oh my god, Dad. Justin has corrupted you to the dark side.”

“Join us,” Matt offered.

“I think I’d rather rinse my eyes with bleach,” Clay said dramatically, but, surprisingly, he squeezed in beside Matt. They really needed to buy a larger couch.

“You know,” Matt said. “If you look at it from an anthropological perspective, sports are a fascinating way to study the values and traditions of a culture. As a social mechanism, they can be very inclusive and bring down barriers that can otherwise be divisive in a society, such as religion, politics, social class, and race. It’s quite interesting when you look at it from that lens.”

Clay elbowed him in the ribs, perhaps not intentionally. “That’s BS, Dad. Professional sports are just an over-commercialized excuse to put on a pointless spectacle, which prevents the populace from facing the real issues in a society. It’s mob mentality at its finest."

“You’re both wrong,” Justin said. “It’s not that complicated. It’s about pushing the human body to the limits of endurance. Fighting past the pain to conquer your enemies.”

“Your _enemies_?” Clay mocked. “Seriously, Justin?”

“Was I not clear?”

“Perfectly clear. And stupid. Which is also what sports are—stupid... and meaningless... and morally corrupt."

“Nah. You're only saying that because _you_ suck at them. But, if you played, you'd understand it's all about the glory. And the girls, I guess. And the money.”

“See! That’s exactly my point, Justin! Thank you."

"Huh? I wasn't agreeing with you."

Matt intervened. “See, boys, this is excellent discourse. Three different people look at the same phenomenon and each one comes away with a unique and valid perspective on it.”

Clay harrumphed.

“I agree,” Justin said.

“Did you even understand what he said?” Clay countered.

“Yes.”

“No, you didn't!”

“I did!"

Matt slung one arm around Clay’s shoulders and the other around Justin’s, content to passively listen to their colorful commentary on the game. God, he loved his kids. Neither one more or less than the way he loved the other.

_Clay._ Matt had spent Clay’s first night home from the hospital staring in wonder as he slept in the bassinet beside their bed. When Clay developed colic, Matt had spent the next few months walking the floor with him, trying anything and everything to soothe his distressed cries. Clay’s first word had been “dada.” Matt had been the first person Clay had proudly run to when he had lost his first tooth. He had bought Clay his first telescope and they had stayed out all night in Oakland Hills looking at Jupiter’s moons. All those memories with Clay… Matt would cherish them forever.

 _Justin._ Matt hadn’t been there when Justin had taken his first breath. He hadn’t walked him to the door the first day of kindergarten or picked him up when he had fallen off his bike. He hadn’t protected him, as a father should, from the impacts of violent hands or the ravages of neglect. But Matt _had_ wiped the sweat off Justin’s face as he shuddered in the throes of withdrawal. He had shown him how to baste a chicken and how to mow the lawn. He had tearfully stood beside him in the courtroom as the judge legally pronounced them family. He hoped that he made him feel safe and loved. There were so many memories to make with Justin… Matt was looking forward to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Matt's decision regarding Amber is terribly misguided, but it does come from a place of love. 
> 
> • If you like reading about Justin and the Jensens, you absolutely will love horatiofrog's stories, which take place in the same sandbox as this story. I am so incredibly honored to be affiliated with such a talented writer!! :D


	16. Restless and Torn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin has a nightmare. Clay helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: May, post 2x13
> 
> This is a follow-up to chapter 1. It only took me 2+ months. :)
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, **16** , 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Clay awoke to what sounded like a kitten being strangled. He almost dismissed it as a lingering remnant from a fucked-up dream (he’d been having a lot of those lately). But when he rolled over and burrowed back into his blankets, trying in vain to get comfortable, the noise did not cease. Instead, it got louder and more insistent. 

It wasn’t part of his dream. The high keening was coming from Justin’s bed. 

Clay considered throwing his pillow across the room to get Justin to A) wake up and B) shut the fuck up. But Clay had shit aim and if he threw his pillow, he’d have to get up to retrieve it. 

“Justin!” Clay hissed across the room. No response. 

Suddenly, the pitch of Justin’s voice dropped an octave. Now he sounded like he was choking. Or gagging. Or drowning. 

_Fuck._

Alarmed, Clay jumped up and flipped on the desk lamp. The light blinded him, and he stumbled forward, blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision. When he reached the opposite bed, Justin was an indistinct lump, his face turned away toward the wall. The god-awful gurgling sound made the hairs on Clay’s arms stand on end.

Clay tapped Justin’s shoulder, and, when Justin did not react, Clay applied more pressure, shaking him insistently. Suddenly, Justin launched himself at him, his right hand grasping Clay’s arm, his blunt nails clawing desperately at Clay’s skin. 

“Justin, come on!” Clay tried to pull his arm away before Justin made him bleed. Abruptly, Justin let go. Clay grunted in relief. A second later, a fist came flying at his face. 

Clay’s reflexes were improving (getting his ass kicked on multiple occasions was good survival training, if nothing else). He dodged to the side, avoiding the blow. Well, mostly. Justin’s knuckles impacted the corner of his jaw and then glanced off. Clay scrambled backward as Justin jerked to a seated position. He stared at Clay in confusion, tufts of brown hair messily sticking out at all angles.

“Oh, shit. Clay.” Justin let out a breathless laugh. He squinted at him. “Did I just punch you?”

Clay clutched his jaw and tenderly wiggled it from side to side. The pain barely registered. He’d had much worse. It probably wouldn’t even bruise. It still fucking sucked.

“Yes, you did!” Clay angrily threw the words at Justin, which admittedly was a shitty thing to do, but he was a little freaked out by how violently Justin had lashed out at him. When he had consented to share his bedroom with his new foster brother, he hadn’t exactly expected to get pummeled by said brother in the middle of the night.

Justin looked down at his hand, which was still curled into a fist. He forcibly relaxed the muscles, and then brought his hands together as if he were praying. Clay could see Justin’s fingers shaking.

“Fuck, Clay. I’m sorry. Fuck.” There was something raw in Justin’s face. Raw and penitent. 

Clay immediately felt guilty for snapping at him. “That was probably my bad. I shouldn’t have shaken you.”

“It’s your bad that I hit _you_? You’re a fucking idiot.” Justin kicked his blankets to the end of his bed and scowled. “You shouldn’t have woken me up.”

“I’m not an idiot!” Forget guilt. Clay was now justifiably peeved. “And, for the record, you sounded like a dying lamb got stuck in a garbage disposal. What the fuck were you dreaming about?”

Justin smiled disarmingly. “I was having a hot threeway with two girls with really big–”

“Fuck off, Justin. You weren’t dreaming about sex.”

Justin wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “How do you know?”

“I know.”

“Whatever,” Justin said dismissively. He then earnestly locked eyes with Clay. “Don’t wake me up when I’m like that. I could have really hurt you.”

Clay scoffed. “With aim like that? You mostly punched the air, Justin. You were more likely to hurt _yourself_ falling off the bed.”

“Yeah,” Justin murmured.

Clay wanted to leave it at that, but he inexplicably found himself continuing, “What should I have done then, Justin? To wake you up? Thrown a pillow at you?” That had been Clay’s instinct in the first place; maybe it’s what he should have done.

“You didn’t need to do anything,” Justin grumbled. “It was just a dream.” He dropped his eyes and spoke to his lap. “Waking up… Waking up used to be the real nightmare.”

 _Well, shit._ Clay determinedly stared at the floor. Why did Justin have to pull out this emotionally intimate shit right when Clay was too cranky and sleep-deprived to respond properly? 

He tried to get his brain in gear and come up with an appropriately compassionate response. But then―

“I’m fucking starving!” Justin leapt off the bed.

Clay gawked at his retreating back. “Justin, it’s 3 a.m.!”

“Tell that to my stomach. I’m going to go get a snack.”

Clay stared longingly at his bed. He had stayed up way too late studying, and he had a French quiz on the subjunctive first thing in the morning. _Il faut que je dorme. ___

__Justin may be able to function on little sleep, but Clay needed to be on top of his intellectual game if he wanted to lock-in that “A” in French. Justin was lucky. He didn’t have to worry about his grades. He had missed so much of the semester that he was facing summer school no matter how well he did._ _

__Clay turned from his bed to Justin’s now empty one. He cursed. He fidgeted. He cursed again, debating what to do._ _

__While Clay suspected that Justin had recurring bad dreams, he usually went about them quietly. It was such a stark contrast to how Clay’s nightmares assailed him. His whole body joined the fight, drenching his sheets with perspiration, tangling his blankets into knots, vocalizing his distress in embarrassing whimpers and harsh screams… and, without fail, awakening Justin—who was remarkably forbearing about the repeated interruptions to his sleep cycle._ _

__In fact, in the past month, on more than a half-dozen occasions, it had been Justin who had coaxed Clay out of his terror-stricken dream landscape. He hadn’t teased him about his sweat-soaked bed sheets or commented on his dank body odor. Instead, he always offered to talk, and because Clay always refused, Justin had, time and again, chosen to share in Clay’s helplessness and sit silently by his side (sometimes all night long)._ _

__Clay didn’t know why Justin felt this was his responsibility; it wasn’t like the burden of insomnia was halved when shared. He didn’t ask Justin to stay up with him. He never thanked him or acknowledged it the next day. But, he also never rebuked him or tried to dissuade him from sitting vigil—a fact that should have shamed Clay. (It didn’t.)_ _

_Goddammit._ Clay sighed. He owed Justin. Maybe Justin even really _did_ want to talk. Clay should at least make more of an effort to find out. 

__And so, he reluctantly dragged himself down the stairs, cursing the top step for creaking so loudly when he put weight on it and grumbling at the audacity of the kitchen lights, which mercilessly assaulted him with their death rays. Finally, he glared at Justin, who was rooting in the cabinets and tossing bags of chips and cereal boxes on the kitchen table. He wasn’t even trying to be quiet._ _

__Clay winced when Justin plopped two glass bowls on the table, the sharp clink echoing outward and upward._ _

__“Justin!” Clay seethed. “Be quiet! My dad is going to come charging down here with his baseball bat any second.”_ _

__Justin shrugged. “Been there, done that. Your dad doesn’t scare me.”_ _

__“Whatever.” Clay stared at the table in a stupor. Why were there _two_ cups of milk sitting there? Why had Justin set _two_ bowls out? The answer was obvious... Justin had set a pair out for him. He had anticipated Clay following him downstairs. That expectation irritated Clay, mostly because he _almost_ hadn’t ventured down at all. _ _

__“Why does your dad even have a baseball bat anyway?’ Justin asked as he sat down in the kitchen chair across from Clay. “Did you play Little League?” Justin apparently found that idea infinitely hilarious because he cracked up for a good minute._ _

“Actually, I did,” Clay retorted. What he didn’t tell Justin was that he had spent the majority of his Little League practices sitting in the sand and trying to build miniature sandcastles while the coaches tried to encourage him to stand up and bat or at least try to run the bases. He had only lasted two weeks before the head coach had gently suggested to his mom that baseball probably wasn’t the right fit for him. 

__Clay collapsed his body into the chair across from Justin. “The bat is actually my mom’s. She played softball in high school.”_ _

__“Really?” Justin said. “Doesn’t surprise me. She’s a badass.”_ _

__Justin really needed his definition updated if he thought Clay’s mom was a badass. But, at the same time, it kind of pleased him that Justin liked his mother. Wasn’t half of jock culture “yo mama” jokes?_ _

__Justin methodically poured a scoop’s worth of three different cereals into his bowl before topping it off with Fritos and potato chips._ _

__Clay’s face twisted in disgust. “Chips with cereal?”_ _

__“Why not?”_ _

__Clay couldn’t think of a reason why not. Especially since Justin was eating it dry anyway._ _

__Even though he wasn’t hungry, Clay poured some Cheerios into his own bowl. Wasn’t that something you did when you wanted someone to open up to you? Mirror their actions? Okay, done. But what the fuck was he supposed to do next?_ _

__Clay wasn’t Justin’s therapist. Justin didn't even have a therapist, although he probably needed one. Maybe five of them… that way at least one of them might be able to figure him out. Might being the operative word. Until then… Clay was all there was. _Fuck his life.__ _

__“What were you really dreaming about when I woke you up?” Before Justin could speak, Clay stared him down. “And don’t you dare say sex or basketball or some stupid video game. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But don’t lie.”_ _

__Justin swirled his finger in his bowl, lazily mixing the contents. “My mom’s ex-boyfriend,” he finally said blandly._ _

__“Oh.” Clay swallowed the unchewed Cheerio he had in his mouth. It stuck in his throat uncomfortably. “The one you stole money from?”_ _

__Justin glowered at him. Clay didn’t know why he deserved Justin’s ire for that question. Justin himself had told Clay he had stolen the money; it’s not like Clay meant his words as an accusation or a judgment._ _

__“Yeah, him. Seth. He’s a grade-A asshole. A fucking prick. Which is basically my mom’s type. The shittier, the better.” Justin dropped a chip on the table and methodically crushed it with his knuckles until it was mostly powder._ _

__Clay grimaced. There was so much ugliness left unsaid in Justin's words, but Clay could connect the dots.__

____

____

__Justin had probably actually lived through whatever horror had gripped him in his dream. And, if that were true... Fuck, the noises he had been making... the distress... the unceasing misery. A vague protective impulse, or at least an inkling of one, itched under Clay's skin. He quickly grabbed his cup and gulped down half of its contents to try to get rid of the annoying feeling. He then grabbed three more Cheerios, popped them in his mouth, and viciously chomped down on them._ _

__Justin was picking Cheerios out of his own bowl and stacking them into a small tower. The silence had stretched too long. Clay should say something._ _

All he managed was, “That sucks. About your mom… and her boyfriend. He sounds like a real jerk.” As soon as he said the words, he wanted to punch _himself_. That was all he could think of to say? "Fuck Seth," he added. 

__“Yep,” Justin agreed before flicking a Cheerio at him. It bounced off his arm and hit the floor._ _

__“What the hell, Justin?” Clay dropped down to search for the wayward piece of cereal._ _

__Justin’s perpetual shift in moods was aggravating. One moment he was happy-go-lucky, the next petulant. Or worse: one moment fragile, the next a fucking toddler. Clay found it hard to keep up._ _

__After crawling on his knees and almost cracking his head on the underside of the table, Clay finally found the Cheerio and threw it in the trash with an over-exaggerated exhale directed at Justin. Justin ignored it and raised his hands, his two thumbs touching at the tips, his index fingers pointing upward—forming a rough approximation of a goal post. He smiled mischievously at Clay._ _

__Clay didn’t have the heart to protest. Sometimes, he felt like a babysitter—a really crappy one who regularly caved to the demands of his obnoxious charge (who, to top it all off, was only four months younger than he was)._ _

__Clay dumped half the Cheerios out of his bowl and separated one from the pile. He took his time calculating the proper angle and then flicked the Cheerio right between Justin’s hands. Justin whooped and then quickly covered his mouth. “Shit,” he laughed quietly when he removed his hand._ _

__Clay laughed himself, bolstered by Justin’s praise, and then lined up another Cheerio. After he made eight perfect shots out of ten, Justin dropped his hands._ _

__“What do you know? A sport you’re actually not bad at, Jensen.” Justin dug into his bowl for some Fritos and then tossed them into his mouth, chewing loudly._ _

__“I don’t think this qualifies as a sport,” Clay remarked. It had been fun though. Which _definitely_ made it Not A Sport in Clay’s book. _ _

__“Hey,” Clay said. He held up his own hands in an “L” shape. “Your turn.”_ _

__“Watch me get all ten shots,” Justin said cockily, closing one eye and concentrating._ _

__He got all ten shots. Clay grumbled._ _

__They played five more rounds and then went up to bed._ _

 

* * *

 

__The next morning, when they entered the kitchen, they were met with two disapproving stares._ _

__“Morning?” Clay ventured._ _

__“Morning, boys,” his dad said warmly before turning his attention back to his phone._ _

__“Morning, Mrs. Jensen. Mr. Jensen.” Justin padded over to the cabinet and took down two glasses, one for himself and one for Clay. Clay moved forward two paces before something crunched under his foot. _Oops._ He glanced over at his mother guiltily._ _

__His mother’s lips pressed together tightly. “Do either of you boys want to tell me why there are Cheerios all over the floor?”_ _

__“Raccoon?” Clay suggested._ _

__His dad chuckled and then quickly schooled his face into a stern expression._ _

__“A raccoon?” his mother said. “So a raccoon broke into the house, threw breakfast cereal all over the floor, and then courteously locked up on its way out? Is that your final statement?” Shaking her head, she turned to Justin. “Justin?”_ _

__“A late night snack?”_ _

__“More reasonable,” his mother said. “There’s a broom in the pantry, Justin. And a dustpan right next to it, Clay.”_ _

__“No problem, Mrs. Jensen.” Justin rushed off for the broom. Clay sluggishly followed._ _

___Fuck Justin and his scatterbrained ideas._ _ _

___And fuck himself for agreeing to them._ _ _

___And doubly fuck himself for kind of hoping that they could do it again sometime._ Preferably without a nightmare as the impetus though... and without getting punched in the jaw._ _

 

* * *

 

__Three weeks after the whole Cheerio debacle, Clay was pulled out of a nice dream by yet another commotion from Justin’s bed. He would never cease to be irritated by the fact that Justin could hold an entire conversation while sleeping but couldn't manage to string five words together during the day if he was in a mood. Sleep-talking was part of the package when it came to Justin, and Clay had grown used to it—a freakish nighttime lullaby, almost soothing in its regularity. It was different this time. Justin was pleading with someone, and the words made Clay’s stomach clench into painful knots._ _

__“Bryce, come on. Bryce, get off her!”_ _

Well, he knew exactly what Justin was dreaming about this time. Clay wanted to block his ears. He wanted to find the nearest trash can and vomit. _Jessica. God, Jess._ Clay hoped she was doing okay. He hoped that, if her nights were as haunted as the rest of them, she had someone at home ready and willing to comfort her. 

__Clay swung his legs to the side of his bed._ _

__“Bryce! Please.” Justin’s words were practically sobs._ _

Clay hesitated. What was it Justin had said to him weeks ago? _“It’s just a dream… Waking up used to be the real nightmare.”_ While Clay understood what Justin meant (he wished he didn’t), there was no way in hell he was going to let Justin suffer needlessly. He knew what it was like to be rendered helpless in ghoulish dreams, and he never wanted to remain trapped in his own hellscape, not if there was another option. 

__There was another option: Waking up. It was always better to wake up, especially when you had someone safe welcoming you back to consciousness. Maybe Justin had never had that before, but he did now._ _

__Clay marched over to the doorway and flipped the light switch. When that produced no result, he switched it back off. Then back on. Again and again. Until, finally, there was a sharp inhale from Justin’s bed._ _

__“Clay, what the fuck are you doing?”_ _

__“Shit, sorry,” Clay said. “I had to piss, and I bumped the light switch.”_ _

__“Four times? How the fuck?”_ _

__“Sorry!” Clay turned the light off and shuffled back to bed. He flopped onto his back, blinding searching for the corner of his blanket with one hand._ _

__“You okay?” Justin asked sleepily._ _

__“Yeah.” Clay finally snagged the edge of his blanket. He wrapped it around his body and snuggled back into the warmth he had left behind before performing his act of brotherly benevolence. “You all right?”_ _

__“Why wouldn’t I be, Jensen?” Justin’s voice was hoarse. “Go the fuck back to sleep.”_ _

__“You go the fuck back to sleep!” Annoyed, Clay clutched his pillow in his hands and buried his face in the soft fabric._ _

__Justin was aggravating at any time of the day, but never more so than when showing him a kindness. Or maybe Clay was projecting... It had only been a few months ago that the idea of Justin facing hard times had been vaguely satisfying to him. A righteous comeuppance. Karma._ _

__The tides had turned. Now Clay wished he had found Justin on the streets in March. In February. In December. Heck, why stop there? Clay wished he had befriended Justin freshman year. Or in elementary school, before Bryce had sunk his claws into him. Would that even have worked out? Would they have still ended up here, comfortably inhabiting opposite sides of his bedroom? Almost, but not quite yet, legally brothers?_ _

__Probably not._ _

__Maybe tragedy and animosity had been the only two roads leading to their lives intersecting. Clay didn’t know what to do with that sobering realization. So he pushed it away and joined Justin (who was already snoring) in a sleep unburdened with demons._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Because this takes place so soon after episode 2x13, the boys are still figuring each other out.


	17. Stomach Flu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay's sick. Who is more worried – Matt, Lainie, or Justin? 
> 
> Justin, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: July, post 2x13
> 
> Warnings: Vomiting
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, **17** , 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Sometime in the middle of the night, Clay’s entire digestive system decided to stage a rebellion. An intestinal coup d’état, as it were.

He managed to drag himself out of bed and to the bathroom before retching. He clutched the sides of the toilet as his stomach heaved and his abdominal muscles clenched in painful spasms. He tried to ride it out. 

There were loud footsteps. “Oh, shit.” Justin’s voice was distant and muffled, as if Clay was hearing it from underwater. Yet, when Clay managed to raise his head, Justin’s face was inches away from his, fuzzy and blurry. Clay’s stomach roiled. He pitched forward. And that was how he greeted Justin—by spraying vomit into his face and hair. 

“Clay! Ugh, gross. Gross.” Justin’s indistinct form was recoiling and spluttering. “I think you puked in my mouth, dude.”

If Clay wasn't so shaky, he would have attempted some snarky comment about payback or brotherhood or how disgusting Justin was on the regular. Instead, Clay leaned his sweaty face against the porcelain rim and moaned. He heard water running. Justin spitting in the sink. Receding footsteps. Then it was quiet.

Clay thought he had scared Justin off, but, two minutes later, Justin returned with an entourage. Suddenly, his mom was patting his back. His dad was pressing the thermometer against his forehead. Justin was sticking a wet washcloth in his face and roughly wiping his mouth.

Next thing Clay knew, strong hands (his father’s) were lifting him up and leading him back to his bed. Vaguely, he heard his mother talking to Justin. “Probably… stomach flu… rest… don’t worry…” The snippets reached Clay, but it was hard to comprehend their meaning.

Someone encouraged him to swallow a pill, and then the surrounding world seemed to pop out of existence. In the following hours, Clay’s attention narrowed to his burning throat, to the waves of intense nausea that left him gagging, to the green bucket that miraculously appeared in front of his face each time he choked.

 _I think I’m dying,_ Clay thought. 

He must have said it out loud because Justin responded. “You’re not fucking dying. Quit being a baby.” A cool hand brushed against his forehead. “You want some water?”

“Yeah.”

The cool hand held his head up so he could sip from a cup. Then Clay collapsed backward and into welcome oblivion.

When he awoke next, someone was sitting beside him. “Justin?” he mumbled weakly.

“No, Clay, it’s Dad.” 

Clay, eyes bleary, looked up at him. “Where’s Justin?”

“He went to school. We had to threaten him with some inventive punishments to convince him to leave.”

Clay attempted to nod. Not the best decision. He barely managed to keep his stomach in check. Finally, it settled. “Good. He had that math-, that math… numbers… quiz… or something.”

“Mm-hmm. Okay, kid, let’s get you up and to the bathroom.” His dad helped him stand and then practically carried him to the bathroom so he could piss. When he had finished, he stumbled to the sink, rinsed his mouth out and splashed cold water on his overheated face. He stared listlessly at his reflection in the mirror. His hair was matted down with sweat. Dark circles were under his eyes. He looked like death. He couldn’t find it in himself to care.

After returning to his bed, there was more medicine to take, and then it was again lights out. He cursed when he woke up ten minutes later. Justin was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at him like a creep.

“Justin! Your math test!”

“Chill out, Clay. I won’t know my grade until Monday.”

“You-, you took it? The paper... the quiz?” Clay’s brain pounded against his skull. When he tried to reduce the tension by massaging his temple, it only made the throbbing worse.

“Yeah.”

“But it’s… 7 a.m.?”

“Dude, it’s 7 _p.m._ You are so wasted.”

Huh? Was he drunk? He didn’t remember drinking. 

“Want some toast? I made you toast.” Justin grabbed at something on the bedside table and a plate full of buttered bread was thrust under his nose. 

_Shit. Shit._ Clay made a desperate motion with his hands. 

Justin was quick. He threw the plate to the side and shoved the bucket at him. Just in time. Through the nastiness, Clay registered that Justin was rubbing his back and muttering quietly, “Shh, get it up, bro. That’s good.” 

Exhausted, Clay pushed the bucket away and curled into a ball on his bed.

Next thing he knew, it was darker in the room. His mother was forcing more pills down his throat with a glass of water.

Clay blinked, and the room was bright. Sunlight. Saturday morning — how had so much time passed? Clay sat up gingerly. Justin was slumped in the desk chair by his bed, nibbling on toast. Clay really hoped it wasn’t the toast from last night. 

“Are you eating my toast?”

“Yeah. It got cold.” Justin held up a half-eaten piece. “You want?”

Clay’s stomach twisted—this time out of revulsion at Justin’s actions rather than sickness.

“No.” Fuck, it was hot. It might as well have been a boiler room. Sweat beaded on his upper lip and his t-shirt and pajama pants stuck uncomfortably to his body. 

“You stink,” Justin said. “We should change your clothes. And your sheets.”

Clay grunted. “If I stand up, I think I’ll fall over.”

“Nah.” Justin jumped out of the chair, grabbed Clay under the armpits, and hauled him into a seated position. “I won’t let you fall.” 

Justin untangled Clay’s feet from his blankets and then gripped him tightly around his waist and dragged him over to his own bed. Clay sat stiffly and watched Justin strip his sheets and blankets.

His mother popped her head in the door, saw what Justin was doing, and rushed to help. Together, they remade his bed, chatting in low tones, fretfully glancing his way every 30 seconds. His mom patted Justin on the shoulder, leaving him to fluff Clay’s pillows while she came over to Clay to take his temperature. 

“Feeling any better, honey?”

“My whole body aches, my stomach keeps trying to climb out of my mouth, and Justin won’t leave me the fuck alone. So, no, not really.” 

His mom kissed the side of his forehead and smoothed down his hair—both of which must have been repellant, but she didn’t seem to mind. “I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s no fun to be sick. What do you need?”

“Uh, to change my clothes?”

“Okay. Do you want me to–?”

“No. Justin was going to help me.” 

Justin was instantly all up in his space. “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone?” he asked smugly.

Clay tried to push Justin back, but he missed the target and smacked his own leg. “I do, but you never listen. So, help me... or go back to your math test.” Clay knew he wasn’t making any sense, but his head felt like it was about to fall off. Thankfully, no one held it against him.

His mother left. Justin stood over him and carefully worked Clay’s t-shirt off, tossing it on the floor before pulling a new one over his head, guiding his arms through the holes. He then tugged Clay’s pajama pants off and supported him so that he could remove his own underwear. 

There wasn’t any awkwardness as Justin helped him into clean underwear and slid the pajamas up his legs and hips. Clay knew he’d probably be embarrassed later about getting dressed like a child by Justin Foley. At the moment, though, it felt nice not to have to concentrate on the mechanics of putting on clothing – it might have been multivariate calculus for how comprehensible it was to him.

By the time he got back into bed, Clay was freezing. He buried his face in his pillow and ignored Justin, who was saying something nonsensical and idiotic. Probably. Clay couldn’t understand him, because his eyelids were heavy and the world was tilting away…

 

* * *

 

The rest of Saturday was miserable. He had a round-the-clock audience of one.

“Justin, stop hovering!”

“I think I’m gonna puke.” 

“I don’t want any more medicine.”

“Okay, I’ll eat the banana. Wait... fuck, why did you already eat half of it?!”

“Hey, help me to the bathroom.”

“Am I dead?”

“Justin, shut up.”

“I hate you.”

“Stop taking my temperature!”

“My feet are stuck in something. Could you-”

“Thanks… You know... I don’t-, I don’t really hate you.”

 

* * *

 

Later that evening, Clay came out of a nice dream. He dreamt someone had been running their fingers through his hair, light circular movements. It was soothing and comforting, a counterpoint to his aching muscles and bruised bones.

He opened his eyes. He still felt awful, but at least it was miles away from the misery of the previous night. Justin was sitting beside him, one-handedly reading a comic book. His other hand was resting on Clay’s head. When he saw that Clay was awake, Justin startled and he casually raised his free hand as if he were stretching. 

Clay cleared his throat. “Dude, were you-, were you stroking my hair?”

“Fuck no.”

Clay squinted at him. “You were!”

“I wasn’t. Shut up.” Justin started to get up.

“You don’t have to leave,” Clay protested, pulling him back down.

Justin relented and brought his hand up to Clay’s forehead. “I think your fever’s gone.”

“Thank fuck.”

“You want anything?” Justin asked. “Water? Food? Bathroom?”

Clay rubbed his eyes. “No. I’m just tired, which makes no sense. I guess I’ve been sleeping a lot?”

“Yep. Your parents have been checking in on you every hour. They’re worried.”

It was odd, but Clay didn’t really remember his parents’ presence all that much over the last two days. He remembered a lot of Justin though. Annoying, but constant. Rough, but attentive.

Clay nudged Justin’s arm. “Which comic are you reading?” 

“‘Killer Robots Versus The Terrors of Titan.’ It’s fucking stupid. And fucking awesome.”

“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “What part are you at?”

Justin began describing an epic battle between alien robots and inhospitable moon-dwelling slime creatures. As far as bedtime stories went, it wasn’t half bad. Clay fell asleep to the sound of Justin’s steady voice and to the featherlight touch of fingertips against his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Clay puking on Justin is only fair, right?
> 
> • I am aware that the ending is schmoopy. Don’t judge me, haha. I figure Justin used to be a caretaker for his mother (Amber) and so naturally falls into that role with other people (but only if he likes them).


	18. This Old Road’s Got Me Twisted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bryce is back at Liberty High for a football game. Justin runs into him, and it’s the first test of his newfound sobriety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Late September, Senior Year
> 
> Warning: **Please Read.** This chapter is dark. It involves Bryce saying disgusting things about rape, sexual sadism, and child abuse. There are also references to drug use and suicide. This is quite heavy stuff. Please take care.  <3
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, **18** , 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Not to pat himself on the back about it, but Justin gave an awesome pep talk to Zach. (“You’ve got this, Dempsey. Knock Bryce’s fucking teeth out. Make him fucking cry. Love you, bro.”). Zach looked confident and poised as he began making the rounds, giving a good word to every single one of his teammates. 

Justin stood by and watched, proud of his friend. He had no doubt who would win tonight’s game. Zach was a fucking beast, and he had whipped his team into fine shape. Scott was unstoppable, Ahmad was quick and nimble, Monty was… Monty was an irredeemable asshole. But, all the same, the Tigers could take Monty’s pent-up anger and erratic violence, stir it up with testosterone and a rousing pre-game speech and then unleash the toxic mixture on the enemy: Hillcrest Academy.

Justin gave Zach one last thumbs-up before he left the locker room. As he started down the hallway, he saw a Hillcrest player leaning casually against the wall, decked out in a spotless football jersey. His shoulder pads and cleats looked brand new. (Did private schools buy new uniforms for every single game?) The player's helmet obscured his face.

Justin continued walking. 

“Justy! How’s it going, brother?” 

Justin almost tripped on the waxed floor before catching his footing. He turned and, _fuck_ , of course it was Bryce who was pushing off the wall and removing his helmet. Justin swallowed his initial reaction – _slam the motherfucker up against the wall, knee him right in the balls, and then slowly shred the skin off his face._

Instead, he kept his face blank. “I’ve got a brother, and he’s sure as hell not you.” He tried to sidestep Bryce, but Bryce moved with him, blocking his path.

“Oh, right. How is Jensen? Did you ever manage to get him laid? Must be a challenge.”

Justin stepped closer to Bryce and locked eyes with him. “Clay’s great. And you know what? I’m great. Zach’s great. Jess is great. It’s funny how much better life gets once they take out the trash.”

Bryce chuckled, apparently pleased by Justin’s pathetic attempt at a comeback. It was hard to rattle Bryce. He treated insults the way you would treat a threat from a 3-three-old: _how cute. look at the baby trying to be a serious grown-up._

“Monty told me Jess broke up with you. I guess after I showed her a good time last year, your little dick wasn’t enough to satisfy her.” 

Justin bit his tongue. His leg muscles were quivering under the strain of trying to keep them still. ( _he wanted to snatch Bryce’s helmet from his hand and use it to bash his brains in. he wanted to claw his eyes out. he wanted to maim him. he wanted blood._ ) He couldn’t get what he wanted. So Justin stood frozen in place, trying to stay impassive.

Bryce quickly grew bored with Justin’s lack of reaction. Justin knew he would keep pressing, keep trying to find an angle. He shouldn’t just stand there and take it. But he did. He hated it, the way Bryce still had a hold over him—a primitive, instinctual hold. _'You leave when I say you can.'_

“Did you know that they’re making me register as a sex offender?” Bryce asked.

Justin raised his eyebrows defiantly. Yeah, he knew. Lainie had told him. ‘A quirk of the law,’ that’ was what she had called it.

Bryce sighed dramatically. “My dad says I’m a victim of this whole PC witch-hunt culture. All that #MeToo crap. He’s working on fighting it. It’s total bullshit. Really messes with the college plan though.”

"Yeah, it must be such a strain, being a serial rapist."

Bryce abruptly grasped Justin’s arm and steered him towards the wall. Justin let himself be pulled. It seemed easier than resisting. His back contacted the wall, softly, without much force (Bryce didn’t want to hurt him, not physically; there wasn’t as much fun in that – the sick fuck). 

Bryce rested his left hand against the wall and pushed his right hand against Justin’s chest, pinning him like a cat’s paw would a bug. He leaned in until their faces were inches apart. “It started with you, you know.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about, Bryce?” Justin focused on a pimple popping up on Bryce’s chin so he wouldn’t have to look into his dark eyes.

“The summer before your freshman year... Your mom was still married to–, what was his name? Daniel?”

“Darnell.” Saying that name… Justin’s voice broke, and he hated it. 

Bryce heard the break, and he smiled. _Jackpot._

“You told me that if he caught you taking his coke, he’d fuck you up. You remember?”

“Yeah, so?” Justin gritted his teeth. His mom had snuck off with half of Darnell’s coke one night, probably to sell it to pay the rent or maybe to buy her preferred cocktail of drugs (who the fuck knew?). When Darnell had discovered that the cocaine was missing, Justin had claimed that he had taken it. That night… Well, that had once been the worst night of his life (the night of Jessica’s party had since firmly unseated it).

Bryce smirked. “So, Justy, I never told you, but it wasn’t your mom who took the coke. It was me.”

Justin’s hands began to tremble. “Why? You never did coke.” _Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me._

“I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to see if Darnell really would fuck you up as badly as you said he would. Call it curiosity.” Bryce removed his hand from Justin’s chest. Oddly, the weight didn’t disappear; it was still there, crushing Justin’s rib cage, making it hard to breathe. 

“When I got home,” Bryce continued, “I flushed the coke, and I waited. I knew you would show up.”

That terrible night – the cracked ribs, the welts on his back, the urine soaking his pants because he had pissed himself in terror. If Justin hadn’t managed to duck and avoid the lash of the belt across his face… if the window hadn’t been open... if there hadn’t been bushes at the end of that two-story fall...

He had limped all the way over to Bryce’s, no coat, no shoes, shivering more from the pain and shock than from the wind and rain, seeking someone who would open up their door for the worthless mess that he was. He had known that Bryce would help him. (“Justin, what happened? Get in here. Are you okay?”)

Bryce’s admission—it was like cut glass being forced down Justin’s throat. The pain was already bad enough. But Justin knew that Bryce wasn’t going to stop, not until he saw the blood come bubbling up to Justin’s lips.

“When you came over that night, and I lent you some of my clothes… Fuck, man, seeing those bruises… knowing I had put them there... I didn’t even lift a finger, but I had marked you black and blue and red. Fuck, you were even crying like a little pussy.”

Justin closed his eyes.

“And you came running to me... Almost like you were asking for more. I’d never felt anything like that before, that rush of power. It was better than getting high.”

Justin breath whistled in his lungs. Did Bryce realize how mangled up inside he made Justin feel? _Of course._ That was the whole point.

“After I got you some ice, I went to the bathroom. Do you remember?”

 _Why the fuck would I remember that? All I remember is trying to breathe past the fire in my chest, trying not to stain your fucking $12,000 upholstery with my blood._ Justin, despite himself, shook his head in answer to Bryce’s question. He didn’t know why, but he needed to hear how the story ended. He opened his eyes.

“My dick was so hard, man. I had to go jack off. It made it so much better—thinking about how good your stepfather must have felt when he let you have it. It was the best orgasm I’d ever had.”

An almost inhuman whimper came from between Justin’s lips. It was like that night with Darnell all over again… but this time the blows were puncturing some deep, untouched part of his soul. 

Bryce huffed in amusement. “So I guess I should thank you. When I got laid for the first time, I knew what I liked, and well… You know the rest.” 

Justin was…

 _itching_

_sinking_

_convulsing_

_disappearing_

He struck out at Bryce but there was no strength left in him. Bryce easily caught his fist and tsked. He knew he had won. “You always used to think that you owed me. But, Justy, I owe you every bit as much. Thanks, brother.”

Bryce released him and calmly walked away.

Justin wanted to drown himself in the highest proof liquor he could find. He wanted a needle to tear its way into his veins, in one side, out the other. For a heartbeat (only a heartbeat), he even wanted to die.

 

* * *

 

Justin somehow managed to stumble up the bleachers. He felt like he was drunk, even though not a drop of alcohol had passed his lips.

“Justin!” Jess called. “Is Zach ready? I hope you gave him a kiss from me.”

“What? Yeah,” he said distractedly. He sat down by his brother and leaned in to whisper, “Clay, can we go?”

“Go where?”

“Home.”

Clay laughed. “Very funny, Justin.”

Justin caught the string of Clay’s black hoodie with a shaking hand. “Clay, I’m serious.”

Clay was scanning the field intently, no doubt trying to catch a glimpse of Sheri in her cheerleading uniform. “You’re the one who always drags me to these games in the first place. I thought we were here to support Zach?”

Justin tugged the string harshly. “Clay, I… I ran into Bryce.”

Clay’s head snapped around so fast, it gave Justin vertigo. “What?! Are you okay?”

“No. I… I’m not okay. I want to get really fucking high, and I... I saw Aiden on the way back.”

Clay’s eyes widened. He was starting to get it. “Aiden?” He lowered his voice. “Your heroin dealer?”

Justin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bag of powder he had just bought. He surreptitiously showed it to Clay.

“Jesus, Justin!” Clay hastily shoved Justin’s hand and the little clear bag back into his pocket. He put his arm around Justin’s shoulders and helped him stand up. “Okay, yeah, let’s go.”

“Where the fuck are you going?” Alex demanded from the other side of Jessica. 

“I’ll text you later,” Clay said in a rush. And then he was leading Justin down the stands and steering him across the field. Justin struggled not to fall, relying on Clay to direct them where to go because his field of vision had blackened and all he could think about was, _It started with you, you know._

The next thing Justin knew he was up against the wall of the school, folding downward, collapsing, and Clay was there (“Fucking breathe, Justin!”). A firm hand was pushing his head down and to the side as he vomited onto the grass.

Once his stomach quieted, he knocked his head back against the wall. Clay was sitting cross-legged beside him, his right hand ghosting against Justin’s thigh while his left hand dug into the ground, scooping up rocks and dirt and tufts of grass. There was a small hole forming, a mound of debris beside it. 

“Clay… what?”

“Give me the heroin.” Clay’s voice brooked no argument. Justin sluggishly pulled the bag out of his pocket and handed it over. “Don’t get it on your skin,” he warned. 

Clay dumped the fine white powder into the hole he had made and began to bury it under two inches of dirt. R.I.P.

“What did Bryce say to you?” Clay demanded as he patted down the grave.

_I guess I should thank you._

Justin drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “He said–.” The shame swirled in him, bitter and hot. “He said it was my fault.”

“What was?” Clay folded his knees into a mirror image of Justin’s and scooted over until their sides were touching.

“Hannah. Jess. Chloe. All the girls he forced himself on.”

Clay blinked, momentarily dumbfounded. “How could that possibly be your fault?”

Justin didn’t want to confess this, not to anyone. But Clay wasn’t _anyone_. He could trust Clay with the awfulness. “Because–, because when I was 14, my stepfather beat the shit out of me, and Bryce got off on it.”

“Got off? He watched and…? What the fuck!”

“No, not like that! Like… like seeing my bruises, seeing the blood. It… it made him hard.”

Clay flinched so violently that Justin could feel the vibrations travel through his own body. Justin dropped his head. A moment later, Clay's cold hand curled around the back of his neck. 

“It’s not true,” Clay said. “Bryce said that crap to fuck you over. That’s what he does, and it clearly worked.”

Justin sniffed. He wasn’t quite crying yet, but he could feel the moisture forming. “No, Clay, he _was_ telling the truth. I know him. He wanted to be in control, and I-, I gave him that. Willingly. I let him pay for almost everything. My food, my clothes, my basketball gear. If my mom was late on the rent or the utilities, I’d barely have to mention it, and he’d slip an envelope of cash into my backpack.” 

The first tear leaked from the corner of his eye. “He always acted so concerned when my mom’s boyfriends... when they hurt me. At least that's what I thought. But now... _fuck!_ Bryce never fucking cared. By running to him, I was playing into his sick fantasy. He liked seeing me in pain. He liked having the power. If I had known, if I had seen it and said something earlier... then maybe…”

Justin turned into Clay’s chest and began to sob, hands scrabbling for purchase in his brother’s hoodie. A tentative arm encircled him and then a hand cradled his head while he cried in violent, shuddering gasps. He had never so completely lost control of himself in front of another person. 

_Stop fucking crying._ He couldn’t stop. Clay didn’t say anything. He just held on tighter and accepted Justin’s pain as if it were his own.

Finally, the tears subsided. The trembling ceased. Justin hauled himself back upright and wiped his snot on his shirtsleeve.

“Justin, listen to me,” Clay said gently. “I’m not trying to diminish how you feel, but you’ve got to hear me. Bryce is a fucking monster. He's a sadist, pure and simple. Maybe you were the first person to see it, but it was _not_ your fault. It wasn’t anything you did. You two had a sick dynamic. Don’t let him worm his way into your head again. Please.”

Clay brought his thumb up to Justin’s face and wiped away the wetness on his cheek. “What can I do?”

Justin stared at the little mound of buried drugs. “Dig up my heroin.”

“You don’t need heroin,” Clay said patiently. “You’re stronger than that. Besides, you’ve got me.”

“You’re saying you’re better than heroin?”

“Damn right I am. I won’t kill you, for one.”

Justin smiled wistfully. “You’re every bit as addictive though, you know?” He looked into Clay’s eyes. “If I had to choose—you or heroin, I’d choose you.”

Clay nodded with satisfaction. “I think I’ll put that on my next college application. Clay Jensen: a better choice than heroin.”

There was a roar from the crowd. The teams must be coming out onto the field. Zach. Scott. Bryce.

“I really hope Zach breaks Bryce’s head open tonight,” Justin said.

“Or knocks out his teeth,” Clay put in.

“Snaps his dick off.”

“All of the above.”

“Yeah.” 

Clay grabbed Justin’s arm, tethering him to reality, to sanity. “Do you still want to go home?”

Justin exhaled. “No. Let’s–, let’s just sit here.”

“You got it.” Clay kept a firm hold on Justin’s arm.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they got stiff sitting in the same position. They stretched out on the grass and listened to the chants from the field, the muffled voices of the commentators over the loudspeakers, the band playing at halftime. Clay complained about bugs crawling in his hair; Justin tried to pick them out in the dim glow of the outdoor lighting. 

Time slid away. As the game approached its end, Justin pulled Clay up by the hand, and they wandered over to one of the benches near the sidewalk. They hunched over Clay’s phone as he pulled up the twitter feed of the Liberty High Tigers. 

_Zach Dempsey adds another touchdown in the 4th to put it away._

_Tigers win!!! 29-22. Well done! #GoTigers_

“We won!” Clay shouted, jumping up. He then looked embarrassed at himself for his enthusiasm. Justin stood up and offered Clay a high five.

“Let’s find the others,” Justin said, slinging his arm around Clay's shoulders. 

Clay’s grin faded. “Wait… Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” He was sure.

 

* * *

 

They had to push their way through crowds of screaming fans to reach the field. Justin swallowed hard when he saw the back of Jess’ head. He had been so focused on himself that he hadn’t even considered how difficult it would be for her tonight. She was standing with the cheerleading team. When she turned and Justin caught sight of her face, he could see that she was laughing, her head thrown back. She was so fucking fierce. Hard as nails. Beautifully unyielding. She wouldn't allow even a hint of Bryce’s shadow to darken her joy. 

Jess spotted him and waved. He waved back. Jess bounced on the balls of her feet, and even though she wasn’t part of the cheerleading team anymore, she joined Chloe and Sheri as they began another rendition of the Liberty High Tigers victory cheer. 

Justin scanned the crowd, and, for the briefest second, he spotted Bryce across the field. He was standing alone—no consolation from his team on their loss, no claps on the back, no admiring girls. Justin could have looked longer, but why ponder someone who meant nothing to you? 

Bryce receded. He faded from Justin’s view, and suddenly Zach was there and he was lifting Alex off the ground in his excitement and Jess was dancing in the background and Scott was joining them and hugging Clay, who, in turn, pulled Justin into the embrace—which somehow led to a bone-crushing group hug. 

Later, Justin slapped Scott on the back. He gave Zach a fist bump, teased Jess’ curls. He kissed Alex’s cheek (which earned him a half-hearted punch to the chest in retaliation). Throughout it all, Clay was never more than an arm’s length away from Justin—a quiet, steady comfort in the night. 

Justin was okay again. They were _all_ okay. 

It was a high school game and their team had fucking won. So they lived loudly and went to celebrate with laughter and friendship (no booze or heroin required).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Okay, so in 2x13 after talking to Bryce, Justin walks away from Clay’s offer of support. I wanted to do a similar scene but have Justin go _to_ Clay and accept his help. [Also, fuck Bryce.]
> 
> • The detail about Bryce having to register as a sex offender comes from horatiofrog’s brilliant story “A Quirk of the Law.”
> 
> • Sheri is back on the Cheerleading team here for no particular reason other than I like the idea. (And I want her to be friends with Chloe.)


	19. Chickenpox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin has chickenpox. He thinks he’s dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Mid-October
> 
>  **horatiofrog** prompted Justin + chickenpox. This is for you, my friend!  <3
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, **19** , 21, 22, 23

When the alarm went off and Justin opened his eyes, he had no idea how close he was to death. Yes, he was itchy and irritable, but that was probably because it was early and he hadn’t slept well. In fact, he had endured a terrifying nightmare in which a butt naked Clay screamed the equation of a parabola at him. It was only natural that his body broke out into hives as a result.

When he first caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror and saw a few giant red dots, he didn’t panic. Everybody had bad days. Justin wasn’t exempt from acne, and a few blemishes wouldn’t mar his natural good looks. A few dabs of Lainie’s concealer would take care of that little issue (no one would fucking have to know).

It wasn’t until he pulled off his t-shirt and saw his chest that he realized the severity of his condition. He almost screamed in horror. 

He ran back into his bedroom and shook Clay in alarm. “Clay! Clay, wake up!”

“What?” Clay croaked, pushing his hand away impatiently.

“Clay… I think I have the boob plague.”

Clay sat up, staring at him like he was about to wring his throat. “You’re telling me you have an STD? Fuck, Justin. I didn’t need to know that!”

Clay looked like he was about to turn over and go back to sleep, so Justin hit him (really fucking lightly) on the arm. “Screw you! Not an STD! That plague… you know, the one that killed off 50% of Europe in the Middle Ages.”

Clay groaned. “The Bubonic Plague? Justin, no one gets that anymore. Why are you so fucking stupid?”

“Okay, smartass, what's this then?” Justin pulled up his t-shirt for Clay’s benefit and was both relieved and petrified by how wide Clay’s eyes got as he took in the multitude of red bumps.

“Hmm. Well, that _is_ something.” He scrambled off the bed. “Let’s go ask Mom.”

 

* * *

 

Matt, glasses perched on the end of his nose, calmly studied Justin’s stomach. “It looks like chickenpox, doesn’t it, Lainie?”

“Chickenpox?” Justin dropped his shirt and rubbed roughly at his arms.

“Chickenpox?” Clay echoed.

Lainie hummed. “Sure does look like it. Don’t scratch, honey.” Lainie put a comforting arm on his shoulder. “Do you remember having a rash like this as a child?”

Justin shook his head. “No.” He remembered bruises and cigarette burns and there had been plenty of irritations from bandages... but never something like this. Plus, he knew he would remember having been bitten or scratched by a chicken!

Clay was slowly edging away from Justin. He was trying to be slick about it, but he had the subtlety of an elephant.

“Clay,” Matt chided. “You had the varicella vaccination. You’re immune.”

Clay froze and scratched his cheek, trying to play it cool. “I was going to get some coffee?”

“Thanks for the support, bro,” Justin said angrily. “I’m the one dying here!”

Matt clicked his tongue. “Chickenpox isn’t fatal, Justin. Believe it or not, boys, getting the disease used to be a rite of passage. If a child in the neighborhood came down with it, parents would have chickenpox parties for the sole purpose of getting their offspring infected so that the whole ordeal could be over with as soon as possible.”

“Ordeal?” Justin gulped. He looked at Lainie for support.

Lainie’s frown lingered for a good minute while she studied him. “Justin, I’m pretty sure you should have gotten a vaccination for chickenpox as a baby and then a booster shot later on. I know Clay did. Let me go find your vaccination records and see what they say.”

 

* * *

 

There was no record of Justin ever getting the vaccination for chickenpox. _Fucking great._ Yet another way in which his mother had screwed him over.

Matt immediately began to research on his phone while Lainie called the doctor. Clay stood a few feet away from Justin, and every time Justin moved toward him, Clay immediately found some task to do that conveniently required him to back quickly away. _What a freak._ Justin followed Clay around the kitchen just to mess with him. 

“Okay, Justin,” Matt said, putting down his phone. “Widespread vaccination for chickenpox began in 1995, so your pediatrician should have recommended it for you as a baby. Of course, before the law changed in 2015, California schools allowed parents to sign a form attesting that vaccinations were against their personal or religious beliefs. Would your mother have done that for you?”

Justin shrugged. “Doesn’t seem like her. She wouldn’t have cared either way.”

Matt cleared his throat. Clay’s face suddenly oozed sympathy, which was fucking annoying, but at least he finally approached Justin and patted him on the back with a hesitant hand.

Lainie returned from making her phone call. “I texted Dr. Mahida a picture of your spots, and she believes it’s chickenpox too. She wants us to check for a fever.” 

Lainie pressed a thermometer to Justin’s forehead and waited for the beep. She nodded her head in confirmation. “You have a low-grade fever, Justin. That means no school for you today and not until this passes, which could be several days. Chickenpox can be serious for adults, and since you’re 17, we’re going to have to monitor you carefully. Matt, can you stay home with him?”

“Not a problem. We can have a movie marathon.”

Lainie gave Justin a warm hug. “Don’t worry, honey. Matt and I have been through this. So have a lot of people. You’re going to be fine.”

 

* * *

 

Justin was not fine. The day had been fucking torture. He was tired, his body ached, and the itching was 5 million times worse than it had been with heroin, and, to top it all off, he wasn’t allowed to scratch. (Apparently, he risked getting an infection if he did.) _Fuck his mother. And fuck chickens._ Justin would never eat an egg again.

The only perk of being sick? Missing school. And spending time with Matt, who was a fucking saint and watched four of the _Fast and the Furious_ movies with him without complaining about how often the laws of physics were broken. (Clay simply couldn’t appreciate the beauty of a reckless car chase.) Matt cooked him whatever food he wanted and even tucked him into bed like he was a little kid. Thankfully, the Benadryl really knocked him the fuck out.

 

* * *

 

Justin heard a clicking sound and slowly sat up in his bed. Vaguely, he noted that he had pushed the covers off while he slept, probably because the contact against his skin had made the itching worse.

Clay quickly hid his hand behind his back and smiled. “How are you feeling?”

Justin ignored the question. “Why the fuck were you just taking my picture?”

Clay laughed. “Dude, you’re all pink! I can’t miss this opportunity for future blackmail.”

Justin stood up and lunged at his brother. Clay sidestepped easily. “No, no! You are not getting that pink crap on me or my phone!”

Justin sank back on his bed in a huff. “If you don’t delete that picture, I will break your phone.” He formed a claw with his hand and tried to reach his back.

“Justin, don’t scratch!” Clay protested, stepping forward.

“It itches,” Justin complained, but he dropped his hand and tucked it underneath his leg.

“Doesn’t this lotion help?” Clay spotted the bottle on their desk and picked it up. “Calamine? This is the pink stuff, right?”

“Yeah, it helps. But I think I rubbed it off my back while I was sleeping. And I can’t re-apply it, because I can’t reach. Your dad put it on for me.”

“Oh.” Clay squirmed. “Is that your way of asking me…?”

“No!” Justin let out a mournful grumble. He bounced his legs to try to distract himself. He was proud of how outwardly composed he was being about this whole brush with death thing. But, secretly, earlier in the day, he had planned what his last meal would be and who would get his final goodbye.

Clay sighed. “Take off your shirt and turn around.”

“Whoa, bro, aren’t you at least going to buy me dinner first?”

Clay pulled his arm back like he was going to lob the lotion at him. “Do you want to be itchy or not?”

“Okay, sorry.” Justin gingerly removed his stained t-shirt and turned to the side. Clay sat down behind him and began spreading globs of the Calamine across his back. A soothing coolness gradually replaced the offending itch. After Clay finished his back, he touched up the spots on Justin’s arms, chest, and face for him. (Yeah, he had chosen well. Clay was 100% worthy of Justin’s last goodbye.)

“You good now?” Clay asked.

“Yeah. Hey, Clay?”

“What?” Clay set the bottle of lotion back on the desk.

“You know this is how a lot of soft porn starts out, right? A rub down with lotion.” 

“I fucking hate you,” Clay growled. Justin laughed, so Clay stalked out of the room, leaving Justin sitting alone on his deathbed.

 

* * *

 

The next day went much the same except it was Lainie who stayed home with him. She was also a fucking saint. She drew him an oatmeal bath, reapplied his Calamine lotion, and then proposed that they spend the day playing board games on his bed. They played Battleship, Trouble, Monopoly, and the Game of Life. Then, Justin taught Lainie how to play Canasta. She taught him how to play Rummy.

Later, she sat with him on his bed and ran her fingers through his hair as he fell asleep. She was the best.

 

* * *

 

“I picked up your assignments from your teachers. Mrs. Jefferson says you have a trig quiz next Tuesday, so I thought we could work on some math.” Clay brandished a stack of papers at him.

Justin gave his brother the briefest glance before turning back to the documentary on sea turtles.

“Clay, it’s Friday. I’m not going to study.”

“You missed two days of school, Justin. You need to catch up.”

“I’m sick.”

“You’re not too sick to do math.”

“Uh, yes, I am. Goodbye.”

“Justin-”

“Goodbye, Clay.”

 

* * *

 

On Saturday, things took a turn for the worse. Nasty fluid-filled blisters began to appear in place of the annoying bumps. Matt said that it was a natural progression. Justin wondered if he was sugar coating the truth for Justin’s benefit. The end was probably nigh.

Lainie had to go to work and Matt needed to catch up on a few “professorial responsibilities” so Clay was left to babysit him. They decided to have a movie marathon of their own.

“ _Fast and the Furious_?” Justin suggested. 

“No. Not a chance in hell. _Lord of the Rings_?”

“Fine.” They watched that trilogy all the fucking time, but Justin didn’t really mind. The fight sequences were cool, the elves were hot, and… well, Justin would never admit it, but some of the scenes with Frodo and Sam hit close to home—especially when his brother was curled up on the couch beside him. 

Justin would definitely brave the fires of Mordor for Clay, no questions asked. 

~~~~~~~

“Justin, don’t scratch!” Clay swatted his hand down impatiently.

“Okay!” 

“If you scratch, it could scar.”

“Chicks dig scars.”

“Not these kind of scars. Do I need to pull up pictures on my phone?”

“No.”

“Justin!”

“I was just going to scratch my nose. Chill out!”

~~~~~~~

They were about to start movie two when Clay shot off the couch.

“Where are you going?” Justin called. He soon found out. Clay returned with oven mitts and duct tape. “Hold out your hands!”

Justin instantly obeyed and watched in dismay as Clay pulled the oven mitts over his hands and then wrapped duct tape around the ends so he couldn’t remove them.

“What the fuck, Clay?”

“I can’t split my attention between watching the movie and keeping you from scratching. Problem solved.” He settled smugly back down into his place on the couch.

“Are you going to scratch my nose, then?”

“Does it itch?”

“Yes!”

“Too bad.”

~~~~~~~

“Clay, I have to pee. Are you going to hold my dick for me, or what?”

Justin had never seen Clay in such a rush to do anything before. He furiously pulled the duct tape off of one of Justin’s hands and gave him permission to take a bathroom break.

 

* * *

 

That evening, Clay escorted Justin up to his bed and gave him his dosage of Benadryl.

“You need anything?”

“Yes,” Justin said. “I need to tell you that I am glad to be with you, Clay Jensen, here at the end of all things.”

Clay grinned. “Okay, points for the reference, but for the millionth time, Justin, this is not the Bubonic Plague! You’re not going to die.”

Justin sat up on his elbows. “Clay, I’m serious. I’m happy that I spent my last days with you.”

Clay met his eyes and scowled. “You are, without a doubt, the most annoying patient on the planet.”

“Please. When you had that stomach flu thing, you puked in my mouth, Clay. My mouth!”

“Yeah, and when you were detoxing, you vomited all over my bed. And my shoes!”

Justin relented. “Fine. But I’m the better nurse. I read to you. I changed your bed sheets. I went to the trouble of making you toast—even though you didn’t even try a single bite!”

“Toast takes 2 minutes to make.”

“Yeah, but 2 minutes of my time is like gold, dude.”

“Says who?”

“A whole bunch of girls. I can do a lot in two minutes. Which I’ve offered to teach you...”

“Oh my god, stop. I’m done.”

Despite his words, Clay pulled the sheets and comforter up for Justin, got him a glass of water, and then threw a comic book at him to read before he fell asleep.

“Thanks, bro.”

“You’re welcome.” Clay climbed into his own bed. “Tomorrow, we’re watching _Star Wars_. If you behave, I won’t get the oven mitts out again.”

“You’re a fucking saint.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pure silliness. Also, it's a new record for me with literally only two sentences of angst (What is wrong with me?! Maybe _I’m_ sick.)


	20. Adoption Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Adopting one child won't change the world; but for that child, the world will change.” 
> 
> Justin’s Adoption: Four vignettes from four perspectives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Late August
> 
> I held nothing back in this chapter as far as sweetness and fluff because it’s Adoption Day and nothing should hurt!
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, **20** , 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, 23

Matt leaned against the door jam and watched Justin as he adjusted and readjusted his tie in his bedroom mirror. 

“You ready, kid?” 

“Almost.” Justin left the tie alone and instead began to fiddle with his hair, for what reason Matt wasn’t sure. To him, it already looked flawless. Probably just nerves.

Matt removed Justin’s suit jacket from its hanger and helped him put it on. He smoothed the shoulders down and then gestured for Justin to turn around so that he could button his jacket for him. It was a perfect fit. They had taken both boys shopping to get high-quality suits tailored for them specifically for this special day. It had been an expense, but Matt liked to think about it as an investment. The kids could use the suits for more than court appearances (hopefully there would be no more of those going forward); there would be college interviews, internships, job interviews, weddings… The possibilities were endless.

“You nervous?” Matt asked as he finished the last button.

“Should I be?” Justin eyed him apprehensively. 

Matt shook his head. “Definitely not. Like Lainie told you, this is really only a formality. All the paperwork is done.” He rested his hand on Justin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it took so long to reach this day.”

“It doesn’t seem long to me. I don’t mind.” One corner of Justin’s mouth quirked upward in a shy smile.

Matt _had_ minded. It had been four excruciating months of waiting. The judge had wanted an exhaustive search for Amber Foley before terminating her parental rights. Social services had been equally adamant about a prolonged waiting period. 

Although Matt and Lainie and plenty of other parties well knew that Amber had been a neglectful parent, the official social services file attributed all of Justin’s documented physical abuse to Amber’s ex-boyfriends. Then, there had been a meddlesome social services worker on Justin’s case who had claimed that Ms. Foley had been a victim of domestic violence and might possibly have fled for her own safety. The final wrench in the works: Justin, in a private interview with social services, had refused to lay any blame on his mother for his tragic circumstances. The adoption process had necessarily slowed to a crawl as a result.

 _“It is the mission of social services to look out for the best interest of the child. Our primary goal is to, wherever feasible, reunite a child with a birth parent as soon as possible.”_ How quickly Matt had gotten tired of hearing that statement. Thankfully, he had his wonderful wife who was willing, and able, to fight for their son. 

Lainie had put forward the most crucial case of her life, giving plea after impassioned plea (backed by hundreds of pages of documented evidence and a barrage of legal jargon) as to why parental rights termination needed to occur without delay. Even with all her hard work, it had taken longer than was acceptable. As the days wore on, Matt had legitimately begun to fear that Amber Foley would pop out of the woodwork at the last minute and ruin everything. 

It would probably still be weeks before they received Justin’s new birth certificate, but in a few hours, the adoption would be finalized. Matt was on tenterhooks, all systems alert-for-danger. He was simultaneously on cloud nine. It was the day of Clay’s birth all over again. It was everything going right. It was the fear of something going wrong.

“Let’s sit for a second.” Matt gestured for Justin to lead the way over to his bed.

Justin sat down, careful not to wrinkle his new suit. Matt sat down beside him. Was he too close? Would Justin be uncomfortable if he put his arm around him? Matt had exercised caution in those early days when the boy had first come to live with them, but he thought (he hoped) that the two of them had crossed some invisible line in the intervening months.

Matt confidently draped his arm around Justin’s shoulders. Justin didn’t flinch. Instead, he seemed to thrive at the contact. His nervous hand movements ceased, and he tilted his head to the side, attentive to what Matt was going to say next.

“Lainie and I wanted two children. Did I ever tell you that?” 

“No. Why didn’t you have more? Was Clay too much to handle?” Justin laughed and then rushed to backtrack what he had said. “I’m joking! I bet Clay was one of those perfect babies. Probably never cried. Shit gold. Tried to share his bottle with everyone.”

Matt smiled wistfully. “He did recite Shakespeare when he was one month old. I was very proud.”

“Wow. Really?”

Matt almost started laughing at the awed look on Justin’s face. “No, I was kidding. Clay was something special, that’s for sure, but there was plenty of crying and a lot of sleepless nights. That comes with the territory when you have an infant.”

Matt paused, thinking about how to phrase his next words. He didn’t want to make the conversation too heavy. “To answer your question, Justin, we decided we were done after Clay because Lainie had a difficult pregnancy. It felt right at the time to be done. I don’t put much stock in fate or destiny, but I think maybe we were always waiting for you.” He tightened his fingers on Justin’s arm in a half-hug. “You were worth the wait, kid.”

Justin chewed the corner of his lip. “That’s… um, that’s-.” A kaleidoscope of emotion worked its way across his face.

“Too much?” Matt asked. 

“No, it’s not too much.” Justin ducked his head. “I-, I know I’ve dumped a lot of crap in your lap. Seth. The heroin. All that drama with Jess and Mr. Davis. I’m going to try to be better. I want to be a good son. I want to make you proud.”

“You already have. We’re already proud of what you’ve accomplished.”

“I haven’t accomplished anything.” There was a hint of doubt in Justin’s admission, as if he knew that it wasn’t a true statement. For teenagers, recognizing and acknowledging their self-worth was a daily journey of regression and progression. Add trauma and addiction to the mix… It was no wonder that Justin’s self-esteem was on shaky ground.

“Yes, you have,” Matt reiterated. “You passed all your summer classes. You’ve owned the mistakes of your past. You’re making immense progress in learning how to trust and how to heal. Those are skills that many adults never learn. I see nothing but great things for your future, Justin.”

Matt reached his free hand into his pocket and pulled out the gift he wanted to give his new son. “I have something for you. I gave Clay my father’s watch when he turned sixteen, and I wanted you to have this one. It belonged to my grandfather, your great-grandfather.” He placed the gold watch in Justin’s hands. “You remind me of him.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. His name was William. He lived a grueling life, but he was tenacious. Rolled with the punches. if something knocked him down, he got up and moved forward with twice as much willpower as he had before the blow. What’s more, despite being given every reason not to be, he was compassionate. He had a big heart. I see that in you too.”

Justin turned the crown of the watch a few times. The second hand began to dutifully tick off the time. 

“I know that it’s not exactly ‘cool’ for your generation to wear watches, but if you want it, I’d love for you to have it.”

“I want it! Is it okay if I wear it today?” Justin slid the old-fashioned watch band around his wrist. 

“Absolutely.” Matt helped him fasten the watch. He looked up as Clay strolled into the bedroom. His first-born son looked extremely dapper in his form-fitting suit. _I’ve got two handsome sons. Strong sons. Resolute. Empathetic._

“Are you two almost done?” Clay asked, pulling at his tie. “Mom’s itching to go.”

“We sure are,” Matt said. 

“Good,” Clay said, coming forward to gaze appreciatively at Justin’s new watch. After bluntly informing Justin the time was incorrect, Clay started back to the door. He lingered at the threshold. “Dad, no crying today. From you either, Justin. This isn’t a Hallmark movie moment. It’s court, and it’s meant to be taken seriously.”

Matt was unable to hide his smile. “No promises, son. No promises.”

 

* * *

 

Clay had never wanted a brother. Or a sister. The Jensen family had three members. Three had seemed a good number; it was complete and comfortable. Plus, being an only child had its advantages. He never had to share. He always knew he was his parents’ favorite child. His parents gave him their undivided attention. 

Of course, once Clay entered high school, being the center of his parents’ world became more of a burden than a blessing. He chafed under his mother’s excessive parenting. He wanted his space. He wanted to be left the fuck alone so that he could breathe without the act being analyzed as a potential sign of depression or anxiety. The idea of adding a sibling into the family dynamic to take some of the heat off of Clay was suddenly more appealing. But, by then, it was too late to ask Santa Claus for a baby brother or sister. 

How strange life was. Not only was it _not_ too late for Clay to get a brother, Clay actually got to _choose_ who his brother would be. And, wonder of all wonders, he had chosen Justin Foley—a pretentious jerk who, one year ago, had mostly treated Clay the way one would an insect crawling on the wall. If someone had informed Clay sophomore year that Justin would one day be his brother, he would have puked. Or gone on a hunger strike. Or filed papers for legal emancipation. 

But, in a way, it wasn’t Justin Foley who would be his brother. As of today, there would be no more Justin Foley. Justin had waited to almost the last minute before announcing that he wanted to change his last name, requiring some scrambling on his mother’s part to refile the paperwork. The decision was probably the result of the emotional floodgate that was their joint confessions (Justin’s heroin addiction, Clay’s hallucinations). Those events had certainly made Clay rethink _his_ place in the universe. He was glad they had made Justin desire to plant some firm roots around the Jensen name.

Justin Jensen. Clay liked the sound of it. It cemented Justin’s place with them. Clay hoped it would keep the knucklehead from trying to run off again, like he had done in July. Clay hoped it would also give them both a loyal and steadfast anchor going into senior year. _The Jensen brothers. You don’t mess with them._

~~~~~~~

Clay stifled a yawn. His mother had talked this day up for months, but, in his opinion, the adoption finalization had been rather anticlimactic thus far. The presiding judge had a droning and emotionless voice. Clay wondered how it didn’t put the entire courtroom to sleep. The adoption proceeding itself was rather prosaic. Various people took turns reciting lines like bad actors reading from a script.

The judge shuffled his papers for what seemed like the tenth time. “I’ve checked the files and verified that all the legal requirements are met. Justin, since you are over the age of 13, you will have to consent to your own adoption. Do you consent to be adopted by Matthew and Lainie Jensen?”

“Yes, your honor.”

The judge’s face was as immovable as marble. “Is there anything you would like to say to the Court at this time?”

“Yes, your honor.” Justin glanced nervously at Clay’s mother, who nodded encouragingly. “I just want to say that I’m grateful to my new parents and especially to my new brother. They have completely changed my life, and I’m a better person today than I was a few months ago. Getting to share their last name is a great honor. The greatest honor. And, um, that’s it.” Justin cleared his throat and then hastily added, “Your honor.”

Clay’s throat tightened a little. The sincerity in Justin’s voice and his simple, yet heartfelt, words did a complicated thing to his heart. His eyes misted a little. When he looked at his father and saw him openly crying, Clay forcibly blinked back his own tears. His father was emotional enough for all four of them.

The judge didn’t acknowledge Justin’s words. He merely adjusted his glasses and rearranged the papers on his bench for a final time. “The petitioners are fit and proper persons to adopt this child, and adoption would be in the child’s best interest and welfare. Henceforth the child’s name shall be changed to Justin Andrew Jensen and from this day forward, petitioners and the child shall bear towards each other the relationship of parent and child. Congratulations.”

~~~~~~~

They walked out of the courthouse into the bright August day, an official family of four. Justin nudged his arm.

“What happened to ‘no crying’? Your dad… I mean, _our_ dad, I can understand. But I swear I saw _you_ tearing up in there too.”

Clay scoffed. “I wasn’t crying, Justin. The courtroom was very dusty, and the lighting was awful. My eyes were staging a protest.”

“Okay.” 

Clay snuck a glance at Justin. “So, brothers?”

Justin beamed. “Yeah. Weird?”

“Not really. Weird for you?”

“Not really.” 

Justin unexpectedly switched directions and walked straight into Clay, nearly knocking him over with an enthusiastic hug. Clay winced but then quickly relaxed into the embrace. Justin smelled like lemon hand soap and sandalwood shampoo—a comforting smell, a smell of _home_.

He saw his mother and father approaching with smiles on their faces. _Oh, fuck no._ But Clay didn’t ward them off. His mother’s arms wrapped around them both and then his father trapped all three of them in a crushing cage made up of his arms, murmuring something meant to be poetic from one of his arcane Old English texts. Whatever. Clay guessed he could put up with one embarrassing moment on this most important of days.

~~~~~~~

“Surprise!” The yells began as soon as his mom opened the front door. 

Clay grinned when he saw all the decorations. Jessica had really outdone herself. How had she had managed to do so much in such a limited amount of time? The answer, of course, was teamwork. All of their closest friends were there to greet them: Zach, Tony, Alex. Green streamers hung from the walls and baby blue balloons filled every corner. Above the fireplace, Zach (presumably) had hung the ‘Congratulations! It’s a boy!’ banner. 

Clay’s mom laughed delightedly when she saw it. His dad rushed to the kitchen to pull out soft drinks for everyone. Zach came forward to pick Justin off the ground like he was annoyingly wont to do with all of them. “I’m really happy for you, dude.” 

Tony came to stand by Clay’s side. “No take-backs now. You’re stuck with Justin for life. My deepest sympathies.”

“Welcome to the club,” Alex stated. “Of having a brother, I mean.”

“Thanks, guys.” 

“Okay,” Jessica said, gesturing for them all to come closer. “I tried to find baby shower games that were applicable, but it was a little difficult.” She adjusted her party hat. “Maybe we could guess Justin’s birth weight?”

Clay’s mother clapped her hands. “6 pounds, 4 ounces!” Justin stared at her, eyes wide. “I’ve seen your birth certificate,” she explained. 

Alex tapped his cane on the floor. “We could guess Justin’s weight now? Although… it probably changes a lot depending on whether he’s just eaten or not.”

“I don’t eat that much!” Justin protested, a statement so blatantly untrue that everyone ignored it.

“165!” Zach eagerly said. “We did weigh-in two weeks ago.”

Jess sighed. “That was the extent of my game ideas. Sorry, Justin.”

Justin avoided her eyes awkwardly. Their breakup was fresh (barely a week old). As a result, their dynamic was a little off-balance and delicate. Despite that fact, the love they had for each other was still strong. Clay didn’t think it would ever go away; it would merely change to a new form. 

“How about cornhole in the backyard?” Clay suggested, breaking the tension.

“Good idea,” Zach readily agreed. “Teams: Me and Alex. Tony and Jessica. And...”

“Los hermanos Jensen,” Tony said. “Jess, you ready to kick everyone’s ass?” He offered her his arm. She gracefully spun on one foot and threaded her arm through Tony’s. “You bet.”

“Don’t let me down, bro.” Justin clapped Clay on the back and winked at him. “We’re going to win this thing.”

~~~~~~

They lost four games in a row. It was Clay’s fault; even Alex had better hand-eye coordination than he did. When Clay offered to switch teams, Justin shook his head emphatically. “I’ve got dibs on Clay,” he warned Tony, who was approaching. “He’s _my_ little brother.”

Clay almost fell on his backside at the indignity of that statement. “Justin, you’re the _little_ brother. I’m older!”

“I’m taller!” Justin brought his hand up to his head and measured out a line from the crown of his head to the empty space over Clay’s own head.

Clay knocked his hand away. “That’s not how it works. It’s by birth order, you idiot.”

“Oh.” Justin shrugged. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. We’re the same age.”

“No, I’m four months older.”

“Are you really going to lord that over me?”

“Yes.”

Another game of cornhole began. Clay was secretly pleased that Justin had refused to switch teams. It felt nice, to be chosen first, especially for a game at which he was (admittedly) terrible. It felt even better to be chosen by Justin, a once self-proclaimed king at Liberty High. 

When it was Clay’s turn and he tossed the beanbag directly into the hole, Justin whooped and carried on like they had just won the state championships. It was ridiculous. It was validating. It was _natural_.

Clay may have never wanted a brother, but he definitely liked having one.

 

* * *

 

After her children’s friends had all left, Lainie helped Justin and Clay clean up the cupcake wrappers and paper plates strewn throughout the house. When they had finished, she tasked Clay and Matt with taking down the streamers and wrangling the balloons while she and Justin went to Matt’s office to talk. 

She took her son’s ( _her son’s_ ) elbow and gave him a little tug so that he would sit beside her on the couch. This piece of furniture used to reside in Clay’s room before they had moved it in order to make a place for Justin’s new bed. It didn’t really mesh well with Matt’s office decor, but it made a convenient place for her or the boys to sit and talk with Matt while he worked at his desk.

“I know it’s only been 8 hours, but I’d like to get a jump start on some post-adoption paperwork. You up for it?”

“Yeah, sure.” Justin smiled. He hadn’t stopped smiling all day. Lainie had hoped that the adoption finalization would give him a better sense of stability, that it would reassure him that his place in their family was secure. The unrestrained joy he had shown had surprised her. It had also ignited a warm fire in Lainie’s chest, the same way Clay’s infant giggles had used to do.

So many colleagues at work had complimented her on her decision to adopt Justin. Some had given her sympathetic looks. Some had whispered behind her back. It was as if, to them, adopting an older child was a sacrifice or, worse, a burden she and Matt were taking on. Even Lainie’s own brother had questioned her decision, asking if admitting a “criminal” into the family was her version of pro bono legal work. 

Few people acknowledged the magnitude of the privilege that Justin was giving them. The rewards they would receive as adoptive parents. Yes, their new son had made some of the worst choices a person could make and had been well on his way to destroying any chance of a fulfilling future for himself. But the raw material in Justin was superb, and the priceless metal beneath all the rust and tarnish was now getting its chance to shine. He had grown by leaps and bounds since coming to live with them. He had also captured a permanent place in Lainie’s heart.

She curled her legs up onto the couch. Justin did the same, his socks brushing hers as they faced each other.

“First,” Lainie began, “I want you to know that Matt and I have updated our will, and we’ll be filing it with our lawyer next week. We’ve made you and Clay co-executors, and you’ll inherit everything equally.”

“Your will?” Justin looked taken aback. “I don’t want your money! That’s-, that’s not why I… I wasn’t…”

Lainie curled her toes against his foot reassuringly. “Honey, we know. But you’re our son now. Of course you’ll be in our will.”

“What does Clay think? I don’t want him to…”

“Clay already knows. I talked to him. He’s happy about it.”

“Really?” He gave a small sigh of relief. “Oh, okay.”

Lainie studied Justin’s face, checking to make sure she was not throwing too much at him, too fast. “And the next thing we need to talk about is whom to appoint as your legal guardian in case anything were to happen to Matt and me. We chose my sister as Clay’s guardian when he was a baby. I know you haven’t had the chance to spend much time with her, but we’d like to appoint her as your guardian as well—if that’s okay with you.”

Justin’s eyes grew unfocused and he looked around the room blindly, real distress on his face. Lainie rushed to amend what she had said. “Or, if you’d rather, once Clay turns 18 in October, he could be your guardian until you turn 18 in February. It’s a little unconventional and the court may question it, but if that would make you more comfortable…”

“Are you sick?” Justin interrupted. “Is Matt sick?” The fear in his voice made Lainie’s mouth tighten. 

“No, sweetie. This is all purely precautionary. I like to have all my legal ducks in a row. You know me.”

Justin relaxed and gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah, you’re very, uh… thorough? What you want is fine. Your sister’s fine. I like her. If she doesn’t mind.”

“She doesn’t mind.”

“Okay.” 

Lainie shifted closer to her son. She was so thankful for this moment, to finally be able to call Justin hers. They had searched for Amber Foley for months and, even though the search had yielded no leads, Lainie had become more and more worried with each day that Justin’s biological mother would show up to contest the adoption. She had been even more terrified that Justin would _choose_ Amber over them. That fear… Lainie could finally put it to rest.

“The next thing’s not paperwork related, but Matt and I wanted to make it clear to you that you’re welcome to call us ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’. There’s no pressure, and I know you might have complicated feelings about calling me ‘Mom’. You already have a mother, and I’m not trying to take her place. So, if you want to call Matt your dad and call me Lainie, that’s okay too. It wouldn’t bother me.”

Justin’s hands fidgeted. Lainie could see that he was mentally struggling and fighting against himself. “Thanks, m-, m-...” He broke off and swallowed, not able to release the word from between his lips.

Lainie knew that Justin had tried to say the title to please her. It was endearing but misplaced. Lainie reached out to touch his knee. “No, honey, don’t force it. Lainie is perfectly fine.”

She leaned forward to brush her fingers through his hair. It was stiff with product, but it could have been the softest velvet for how precious it was beneath her fingers. She wanted to promise him that no one would hurt him ever again, not on her watch. She wanted to tell him that she would never abandon him or throw him out of the house. But she didn’t want to bring up old wounds, not on this day—the second happiest of her life. 

She touched Justin’s cheek. “I don’t know what the word has meant to you in the past, but, for us, family means forever. You’ll always have a home with us, no matter what you do or where you go. You don't have to earn our love, or prove yourself worthy of it. You have it, always, simply by being you.” She kissed his temple gently. “I love you, Justin Andrew Jensen.”

When she pulled back, she looked into his blue eyes—the twin windows into his emotional landscape, into all the things he sometimes could not say. She was learning his language more every day. It was so different from her own, equally different from Clay’s or Matt’s. It was uniquely his own, and it was beautiful.

Justin smiled again. “I never knew what a mom was until I met you.” He surged forward and put his arms around her neck. She pulled him deeper into a hug, squeezing him lightly. Eventually, she had to let him go. 

Her heart was a different story. In her heart, she would never let go of Justin, the same way she never really parted from Clay, no matter the physical distance between them. She would carry her children with her always.

 

* * *

 

Justin ran his fingers idly up and down his stomach. They had turned the lights out a few minutes ago, but he was too hyper to sleep. He was happy. No, that word didn’t come close to encapsulating how he felt. He was _euphoric._

He had been so afraid that this day would never come. Then, he had been equally afraid that this day _would_ come and he would prove himself unworthy of it. But the Jensens had taught him that worthiness didn’t matter, not when it came to family. Time after time, they had seen the ugly, inner parts of who he was, at his core, and they had not turned away. 

_I’m alone. I’m alone._ That had once been the mantra of Justin’s life… but no longer. For the first time, he felt rooted—not tied down or constricted, but more like he could choose to fly upward and set his own course with the firm knowledge that there would always be a safe place to land. A home.

And it had all started with Clay. 

“Clay?”

“Yeah?” Clay mumbled from the neighboring bed.

“Do you remember when you told me that your family wanted to adopt me? At Monet’s?”

“Of course.”

“You said the adoption was your parents’ idea but it was _your_ decision. I don’t think I ever thanked you. For deciding to adopt me.”

Clay shifted in his bed. “Well, I got something out of it too, you know.”

Justin smiled. The memory of that moment at Monet’s had been trailing him all day, a half-second behind his every step. It had been the beginning; it had made everything possible. “Back then... that day when I got out of juvie... I thought the adoption meant a place to crash. A bed and food and maybe, I don’t know, your friendship? It was always temporary in my mind. Wonderful… but temporary. I thought once I graduated high school, my time with your family would be over. But I guess-, I don’t know... I think I was wrong?”

Justin paused, trying to pick the right words and not simply blurt out the first ones that crossed his mind. Clay waited patiently. He never rushed him, not when it mattered. Justin loved that about his brother. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen with Zach or Jess or Alex. I hope we stay friends, but after graduation, there’s no real way to know for sure. But you… I _know_ you’re going to be in my life forever. You’ll get accepted into some fancy college and go away to school, but I’ll still see you on holidays. I’ll be invited to your wedding. I’ll get to see your kids and what total fucking goofballs they are. Maybe I’ll even see what you look like when you’re a crotchety old fucker. Right?” he finished hopefully.

“Yes,” Clay said without hesitation. Then he inhaled noisily. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Justin turned his head in alarm.

“You’ll be the uncle to my kids!”

“Well, duh. Is that a bad thing?”

“Yes!” Clay exclaimed. “Because you’ll be the cool uncle, and they’ll like you more than me.”

Justin laughed without restraint. He was so fucking high—not on any drug, but on the joy of living. “Damn straight. And you’ll be the _smart_ uncle. I’ll send my kids to you for help with their homework. All ten of them.”

“Ten kids?! Fuck, Justin. I can’t even imagine… Your kids are going to be little terrors. Have some restraint, man, for the sake of the world.”

“Who said they’ll all be biological? Maybe I’ll adopt.”

“Oh. Really?” Silence reigned for a long moment. “That’s actually a nice thought.” There was a lot of emotion in the space between their beds. Clay could always say a lot with a pause. “Maybe I will, too.”

Justin turned onto his stomach, wrapping his arms around his pillow. “You know, Clay’s a good middle name. For a boy _or_ for a girl.”

“Shut up, Justin. Don’t even joke about that. I take it back. You won't be the cool uncle; you'll be the estranged uncle who only sees my kids twice a year, on holidays.”

Justin mashed his face into his pillow with a happy sigh. Clay thought he was joking, but Justin was being serious. He’d like to name his child after Clay. He could already imagine the conversation...

_I named you after…_

_The boy who saved my life._

_The man I would die to protect._

_The brother not of my blood, but of my heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • It’s probably very clear from my writing, but I have a bunch of FEELINGS about adoption. It’s a topic that’s personally meaningful to me and my family. Thus, the copious amounts of sugar I poured into this chapter. <3 
> 
> • _horatiofrog_ came up with Justin’s middle name as part of the wonderful story “Fuck the Lions… Fear the Sheep.”


	21. Letting Go #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amber Foley is back in Justin’s life. Their visits are alternately confusing and disheartening. (Part 1 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: September through November
> 
> Warnings: References to child abuse, extremely insensitive references to abortion.
> 
> Previously (in chapters 12, 14, & 15): Amber Foley shows up for *mysterious* reasons. Matt and Lainie agree to let Justin see his mother every other week. Matt secretly offers $200/visit as an incentive for Amber to cooperate.
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, **21** , 22, 23

**Visit #1** _Saturday, September 29th_

Justin didn’t trust his mom. She had lost his trust, run it down to zero and into the black long ago. He also didn’t believe her—not her reasons for wanting to see him again, not her promise to stop asking for the Jensens’ money, not her smile when she saw him sitting at the restaurant table waiting for her. Her enthusiastic hug felt like a trap but Justin let himself be snared because, despite everything, she was still his fucking mother and he loved her.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me,” she said before giving a curt nod to Matt and Lainie. They had promised to be silent observers during the meeting, so they politely smiled and then absorbed themselves in the work they had brought: legal briefs for Lainie, college papers for Matt.

Justin held the chair out for his mom. As he did so, he studied her appearance, looking for signs of breakage. She was clean and what passed for well-dressed by her standards: jeans with no holes and a shirt with no stains. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, and her lips were painted with a bright red smear that Justin’s eyes kept catching on because it reminded him of blood. There wasn’t any actual blood though. No bruises either. No visible track marks. It wasn’t much, but, to Justin, it was everything.

After they ordered their food, there was an awkward length of silence. Justin had known that it would be hard to have a conversation with his mother. Not because it had been five months since he had been truly alone with her or ten months since he had lived with her. And not because he felt betrayed or conflicted or in pain about anything in particular (or in general).

No, it was simply hard because Lainie had drawn up a laundry list of forbidden topics, taboo items neither he nor his mom was supposed to mention or acknowledge. He knew his new parents meant well, but, fuck, that list had been his life. When you took out the drugs and the violence and his mom’s boyfriends and ex-husbands, what was there left for them to talk about? The weather?

“How’s school?” his mom asked tentatively.

“School’s good. My grades are getting better.” ( _Thanks, Clay._ )

“That’s nice. How’s basketball?”

“We haven’t had a game yet, but practice is going good.” Justin cringed at his mistake, imagining how Clay would correct his words. (“Practice is going _well_ , not good! ‘Good’ is an adjective. ‘Well’ is an adverb.”)

“I’m glad you’re still playing. How are your friends? Bryce?”

“I’m not friends with Bryce anymore.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. I always liked him.” Translation: _I always liked his money._

Justin had to shut his eyes for a second. “He’s an asshole,” he said, clenching his teeth so that his anger didn’t explode at an undeserving target. His mom probably didn’t know about what Bryce had done. She didn’t even know what day it was most of the time. 

“Okay,” she said, not pressing the point. “What about your girlfriend? Jessica?”

Justin, in frustration, tapped his fingers on the table. He knew that her questions were harmless. She wasn’t trying to be cruel and it was really _his_ fault in the first place that such an innocent subject matter was a landmine for him. “Jess and I broke up.”

She reached out a trembling hand for him and, out of instinct, he took it. He wondered why it felt more like he was comforting her than the other way around.

“She wasn't good enough for you anyway.” 

Justin immediately snatched his hand away. “She’s 10,000 times better than me, Mom. _I_ was the one who fucked everything up.”

“Oh.” She gave him a pitying look. “She must have broken your heart. I've been there, baby.” Translation: _You're just like me. Can't maintain a stable relationship._

His mom settled back in her chair and crossed her arms. Four questions and she was already tapping out. Feeling like a fucking idiot, but not knowing what else to do, Justin flipped the interrogation around.

“How’s work?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Different place, same drama. The boss is a slave driver. The customers are rude. No one ever tips enough.”

“How’s the place where you’re living?”

“It’s not the best, but it’s not the worst. It has coin laundry in the basement. The washers are shit, but I don’t have to walk to the laundromat. And the neighbors aren’t nosy, not like they were at our old place. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” he answered, resisting the urge to squirm like a little kid under her gaze. _I wish I didn’t remember. It was somehow always my fault when they stuck their noses into our business._ “Do you have enough to eat?”

She cracked a weak smile. “You don’t need to worry about me, honey. I’m fine.” 

_Not worry?_ Justin would never stop worrying about his mom. When it came to her choices, there was very little he could do. But when it came to his own choices and how they impacted her, that was an entirely different beast. His fuck-up was the reason why she had even shown up at the Jensens’ house in the first place. 

Justin would gladly have gone with her to fix his mess. It was what Clay would do (or, rather, what Clay had _already_ done). His mother hadn’t asked him to come with her. Instead, she had demanded he steal from his new family. His reaction had been, appropriately, _”Screw you.”_ Bizarrely, she still wanted to see him anyway.

“And… How’s everything else?” Justin really hoped his mom would understand what he was asking, without having to spell it out in so many words, without drawing suspicion from Matt or Lainie.

“I got your back with… with you-know-who.” She whispered the words across the table at him. Justin grimaced. _Real sly, Mom._

Matt cleared his throat in a warning, but he didn’t look up from the paper he was marking. It was a weird moment—his new father scolding his former mother. It would be an amusing story to tell Clay later, provided Justin survived the dead air that fell over the table. Their food hadn’t even arrived yet, and they had already run through the gamut of safe topics. What was left? 

They ended up discussing the bus schedule and, fuck it all, the weather. They might as well have been two strangers forced to make chitchat in an empty elevator.

 

* * *

 

_For Justin’s fifth birthday, his mom took him to the ice cream shop._

_“Which flavor do you want, baby?”_

_He ran up and down in front of the glass display case. “Chocolate! No, peach! No, strawberry! No, rocky road!”_

_The cashier laughed. “I think you only get one, kiddo. What does mommy say?”_

_Justin looked at her hopefully. She gave him a tight squeeze. “Hmm… Well, it is your birthday. Pick five flavors. Whatever you want. We’ll buy five cups.”_

_“Yes!!” Justin piled his cups of ice cream with sprinkles and caramel sauce and gummy bears while his mom sadly counted out her dimes and quarters._

_Of course, Justin couldn’t eat it all and most of it melted into ice cream soup and then his stomach began to hurt and the rest went to waste. One of the first rules he had ever learned was, “You eat your food. Wasted food is money down the drain.” But, on that day, his mom didn’t complain or yell. She just kissed his sticky face and gave him a piggyback ride on the long walk back to their apartment._

 

* * *

 

**Visit #2** _Saturday, October 13th_

The second visit started better. Justin had come prepared with a mental list of stories to share with his mom—little snapshots from his life that individually were meaningless but, in sum, painted what he hoped was a pleasant image for her. A way to show her that he was happy and that his new life was _quiet_ and _calm_.

As he shared them, Justin realized that most of his stories involved Clay in one way or another, a fact he could tell bothered her. He didn’t think she had formed a good first impression of his brother. Which was fucking stupid, because Clay was a lot of things but, above all, he was likable. And, most importantly, he meant more to Justin than… well… than anything—or anyone—else. (Fuck if he would ever admit it though.)

To her credit, his mom did listen patiently. She humored him with a smile when he smiled, laughed when he laughed, and leaned forward when he delivered the thrilling conclusion to one of his exploits. (Justin might have exaggerated the heroic nature of some of his and Clay’s deeds; Lainie and Matt generously never corrected him.) 

All in all, it seemed like this visit would be a good step forward for them. But, because there always had to be a snag when it came to his mom, she ruined the comfortable atmosphere with a single sentence.

“Carl and I are getting married.” 

Matt looked up and stared. Lainie looked up and stared. Justin looked down and cursed.

“Hold on!” His mother held up her hands. “I know! I know I’m not supposed to mention my boyfriend, but I can’t exactly keep it a secret.” She held up her hand and showed them her cheap engagement ring. Justin had noticed it earlier, but it hadn’t seemed worthy of comment. Rings were continually cycling on and off her fingers, in sync with the men who cycled in and out of her door.

“Congratulations,” Matt said. He made it sound like a question.

“Congratulations, Amber.” Lainie made a decent effort to sound sincere, but Justin, who had come to know Lainie’s tone and mannerisms, heard the false note. 

His mom squinted her eyes at him, waiting for his response. Did he really have to participate? “Yay,” he said sarcastically. “When’s the date?”

“I’m not sure yet. But… Carl would really like to meet you, Justin.”

“I thought you said he didn’t like kids?”

“He doesn’t, but he’s going to be your dad, so it’s different.”

“He’s not going to be my dad.” Justin glanced at Matt, who gave him a pleased, almost proud, half-smile.

“Okay, your step-dad.”

“Not that either.” 

His mom’s eyes narrowed. She was the only person who could make a glare so coldly apathetic. “Is it that hard to be happy for me?”

Justin laughed sharply. “I’m thrilled, Mom. Can’t wait. Do I get to be best man?” He put his elbows on the table, which forced his empty plate forward on the table. It clinked into hers.

“You don’t have to get snotty about it. Carl offered to take you out for a drink.”

“He’s 17,” Lainie said with a frown.

“He’s not that far away from being 18.”

“The drinking age is 21.” Lainie was firm and unmovable on the point.

“Wow. You’re very strict. I know you’re a lawyer, but would it hurt you to let my kid have a little fun now and then?” His mom scooped up her uneaten fries and piled them on Justin’s plate as a peace offering. “Do you want to meet him or not?”

“I don’t want to meet him.” Justin silently pleaded for her to drop the subject. She did, but she also began aggressively ripping up the fries she had offered him, dropping the pieces onto the table and then onto the floor. 

A slow swell of _something_ curled in Justin’s stomach. Embarrassment. He could tell that Lainie wanted to say something, that Matt wanted to apologize to the server who gave them a scornful glance when she passed their table. 

He had feared this would happen . . . that Matt and Lainie would find cause to judge his mom, to strip her down to her bones and discover nothing of substance there. _”You came from this woman? Like mother, like son.”_ He knew, logically, that the Jensens would never think anything so uncomplimentary, but, emotionally, a self-loathing part of his brain projected those words into their minds anyway. 

“Jesus, Mom,” Justin snapped. “Stop acting like a fucking child.”

Her face melted into a disapproving scowl. “I’m the one who’s taking care of you, Justin. Did you forget?”

Justin lowered his head without responding.

“What does that mean?” Lainie asked. His mom ignored the question, so Lainie pressed further, “Excuse me, what does that mean?”

His mom stood up. “It means I’m tired, and I have a bus to catch.” Before leaving, she brushed her hands through Justin’s hair and gave him a quick kiss on the temple.

Lainie sighed and then picked up the check to calculate the tip. “What was your mom talking about? Why does she think she’s taking care of you?”

“I don’t know,” Justin lied. “She gets confused sometimes. I’m sorry for how she acted.” He slid out of the booth and began picking up the discarded food. Matt bent down to help him.

When they had finished, Matt clasped his shoulder. “You have no reason to be sorry. You don’t control your mom’s actions. And you know what? She’s actually better behaved than some of the college kids I teach. The freshman lecture hall looked like a tornado had passed through it yesterday.”

Justin swallowed. “It means a lot to me, you being here.” He looked at Lainie and added, “ _Both_ of you.”

“We’re glad to do it,” Lainie said. “It’s what parents do.”

Matt wiped his hands on a napkin and then put his arms around Lainie. “Should we stop for ice cream on the way home?”

Justin smiled. “Is that a serious question?”

“No, I suppose not. Ice cream it is.”

 

* * *

 

_Justin was eight. His mom was getting married to a rich man and that meant he could finally play Little League. She came to his first game and screamed and shouted, “That’s my boy!” every time he batted, even when he missed the ball. It was embarrassing. He hated it._

_“Mommy’s baby.” That was what another boy on his team called him. After the game, his mom spat on her finger and wiped a smudge of dirt off his cheek. Justin noticed another boy staring, so he pushed her away. “The other kids are making fun of me. It’s your fault!”_

_His mother’s face fell. “Why?”_

_“You make too much noise.”_

_“Oh. Well, I won’t do it again. I’ll make all my noise on the inside next time.” She pinky swore; that was an unbreakable promise._

_At his next Little League game, his mom didn’t cheer. She didn’t try to talk to him when he was with the other boys. She didn’t grill his coach with questions._

_(She still gave him a secret thumbs-up and a silly face every time he sought her face out in the crowd.)_

 

* * *

 

**Visit #3** _Saturday, October 27th_

Matt had a meeting, so it was only Lainie who came with Justin for his third visit. His mom was 15 minutes late. Once she arrived, she offered no excuses and scarfed down her food, eating so quickly that Justin guiltily pushed his own food around his plate. He had forgotten what it was like to be so hungry you inhaled whatever was within reach. 

“Would you like another plate?” Lainie offered.

“No, I’m in a hurry. I have an appointment.” She paused to take a sip of water. “At the women’s clinic.” She swirled the water in her glass dramatically. “For an abortion.” She punctuated each word with a rising tone (For! An! Abortion!), as if she expected judgment to be forthcoming and wanted to make it known that she was proud of her decision.

Justin put down his fork. _Not again. How many did this make?_

“Oh,” Lainie said gently. “Do you have someone to take you? Because, if not, I’d be happy to go with you.”

His mom yanked a napkin out of the dispenser. “Why? You want to adopt this kid too?”

Lainie kept her face neutral. “No, certainly not. I fully support your choice. It’s just that, Amber, no woman should go through the procedure alone.”

“Lady, you’d be the last person I’d ask to come with me.”

Justin dropped his gaze. How awful a person was he that he was thankful she always chose this route? That, after giving birth to him, she hadn’t given him a litter of brothers and sisters who it would have been his duty to protect? “Mom, I’ll go with you.” He looked at Lainie. “If it’s okay…?” 

“Justin, I don’t want you to come.” There was another long, loaded pause before his mom casually added, “I almost aborted you, you know?”

Lainie gasped. 

“I know, Mom.” Until coming to live with the Jensens, Justin wouldn’t have understood what was wrong in what his mother had said. It wasn’t a big deal. He had heard it a hundred times before. 

_“I aborted the rest, but not you, baby. Somehow I knew you would be my lucky charm.”_

_“Before you were born, he told me to get rid of you. The fucking asshole.”_ [Who was “he”? Justin never asked because he thought he already knew. He didn’t want to hear her say it.]

_“Do you see that place? That’s where mommies drop off babies they don’t want. It would have been so easy. Don’t you ever forget that.”_

Justin used to think that saying those things was his mom’s way of trying to make him feel guilty for being alive. Or perhaps grateful to her for allowing him to live. But, at some point, he had realized it was really her way of saying that, despite everything that had come later, she had _wanted_ him. She had _chosen_ him. He knew it was fucked up, but, to his mother, “I almost aborted you” meant “I love you.”

(Lainie would never say something like that to Clay.)

 

* * *

 

_After Justin broke his arm falling out of a tree (that was the story they were sticking with), his mom stroked his hair and promised him, “No more men.”_

_While he recovered, she cooked him dinner every night. Even if it was only a package of ramen noodles or burnt hot dogs on day-old bread from the diner where she worked, it was heaven to him. She didn’t usually pay him so much attention. He soaked it up._

_In the evenings, they played gin rummy and canasta or watched football on the TV. When Bryce came over, his mother let them have their first sips of beer and said that they could stay up as late as they wanted. The three of them slid around the hardwood floor in their socks and threw water balloons out the windows at the neighbors, competing to see who could get the worst curse word yelled up at them._

_“When are you getting married again?” Bryce asked Justin’s mom (because he was a fucking dick)._

_“Never,” his mom replied confidently. “Justin’s the only man for me.”_

_“That’s right,” Justin agreed and then turned to Bryce. “Hey, how was your dad’s date with his hooker last night?” Bryce tackled him and then they wrestled on the floor while his mother shouted tips at him. (“Pull his leg up and flip him, honey!”)_

_Two days later, his mom met Darnell, who turned out to be the most violent motherfucker she ever brought home. Darnell hated Justin, and he liked to show just how much._

_Justin never trusted his mom again._

 

* * *

 

**Visit #4** _Saturday, November 10th_

Justin had figured out that it was easier to deal with his mom if he just had an entire conversation with himself. The ball was in his court, so to speak, and as long as he kept it there, his mother couldn’t say anything rude or disturbing in front of the Jensens.

Since Justin could pick the topic, he talked about what he cared about the most: his friends. He told his mom about Zach, who had recruiters breathing down his neck from half a dozen colleges; Alex, who didn’t need his cane anymore and was back in jazz band; Jess, who had given up cheerleading and had created two new clubs at Liberty: the Black Student Union and the Friends Against Bullying Club; Clay, who was applying to multiple Ivy League universities and had been named a National Merit Semifinalist. Fucking amazing—every single one of them.

Any reasonable person would have been impressed by the company Justin kept. Not his mom. She was more fascinated by her mashed potatoes than she was by anything he said. She smiled at all the wrong places or laughed unexpectedly, even though he had said nothing funny. (Was she high?) 

The whole thing made Justin wary. His mom was trying... but she was also not trying at the same time. She didn’t seem interested in seeing him... yet she kept showing up. She never asked for money and she followed the rules... but she still expressed her disapproval of him in subtle ways—fingernails digging into his arm when she hugged him, a dark smolder in her eyes when he told her that he had changed his last name, a lopsided smirk whenever the money came out of Lainie’s purse.

Justin eventually grew tired of his monologue, so he handed his mom his phone so that she could scroll through his photos. It would fill the time and might make the silence less tortured. She absentmindedly swiped through them for five minutes.

“Who’s this boy?” She turned his phone around to show the photo: Alex, in a soft grey hoodie, sitting on his bed in the half-light, idling strumming his guitar. A privately captured moment that, like its subject matter, was almost too beautiful to be real. “You have a lot of photos of him.”

“Alex,” he said, a warmth rising in his cheeks for no reason at all.

“He’s cute.” She traced the phone screen with her finger. “You know, Justin, I wouldn’t care if–”

Before she could continue, Justin grabbed his phone out of her hand and shoved it into his pocket. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Matt was studying him thoughtfully, as if something earth-shattering (but hopefully not disappointing) had just occurred to him. 

His mother nodded with self-satisfaction. Justin hated it—being seen, being _known_. Especially by his mother, who knew him in no other way that mattered. His jaw twitched, and he wanted to throw vicious words at her because he knew she couldn’t throw them back, not in front of Matt. Sometimes, he still was not all that good of a person. 

“What happened to your engagement ring?” 

“Carl and I broke up.”

“Why?” He didn’t know why he asked, because he didn’t really care. 

“He got jealous. Thought I was spending too much time worrying about you.” _It’s your fault_ : the unspoken accusation.

His irritation intensified. “Did I ever have chickenpox?”

“Chickenpox?” she repeated blandly. “Yeah, you had that when you were little.”

“I didn’t actually,” he said. “I had it last week. Because you never got me the vaccination, like you were supposed to do.”

“Oh, well… I don’t remember… I guess I never wanted you to think it was okay to use needles. That’s why. And you always cried so much getting your shots. I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me? I almost died, Mom.”

“What?” she whispered, visibly shaken.

“Justin,” Matt chided. “He didn’t almost die. We took good care of him.” 

Now that he had started, Justin didn’t want to stop. There was a reservoir of festering anger inside him waiting to be unleashed. “You didn’t do a lot of things, Mom. Like teach me how to cook. Or teach me how to budget money. How to do basic household maintenance. The Jensens taught me how to do those things.”

She flashed him a little smile. “I taught you a lot of things too, baby.”

“Name one.” _I suppose you taught me how **not** to behave._

“How to tie your shoes.”

“My kindergarten teacher showed me after I kept tripping over my laces.”

“I taught you how to swim.”

“Rickie taught me to swim.”

“Justin,” she hissed. “I told you to never say that name again.”

“Why?” he asked bitterly. “Because he was the only one of your boyfriends who was nice to me?”

“Because he was a sick man.”

Justin couldn’t believe the lies she told herself. “ _He_ was a sick man? He loved me.”

“Loved you?” She said it like it was an impossibility. “Oh, baby…” Her mouth twisted like she had a lemon in her mouth. “Maybe he did love you, in his way. And maybe I should have married him and let him be your father. I don’t know. Is that what you want to hear? That I messed up? That I made mistakes?” She looked exhausted and beaten down and… lonely. 

The fleeting satisfaction from berating her turned sour in Justin’s stomach. “No, Mom. I’m sorry. It was a crap week, that’s all. It’s fine. I understand.” It wasn’t fine. He didn’t understand.

His mom carefully took all the sugar packets on the table and (none too discreetly) shoved them in her purse. It was such an insignificant thing, but it brought back fond memories—a time when it had been _his_ job to steal food at the grocery store and drop it into her purse, so that if an employee noticed, Justin could pout and look pitiful and get them off the hook.

A wave of love swept over him, followed by an equally strong wave of disgust. Later, on the drive home, intense dislike warred with detached sympathy. He really needed to talk to a therapist about his emotional whiplash. Luckily (or unluckily, depending on the day), he had three therapists to choose from.

 

* * *

 

_Justin wanted a tattoo. His mom gave her written consent the minute he asked. “It’s your body, baby. I can’t wait to see what you’ll pick.”_

_When he saw the design, Bryce cringed. “Why Latin, brother? I mean it’s cool, but no one’s going to understand it. The chicks are going to waste so much time trying to figure out what it says that they’ll completely forget what they’re there to do.”_

_“Shut the fuck up, Bryce.” Justin went to the tattoo parlor alone. The pain of the needle on his chest was nothing. It was actually soothing, how steady and predictable it was._

_His mother was the first person to admire the finished artwork. “Ooh, I love it,” she cooed. “What does it say?”_

_“Vires et Honestas,” he said proudly, even though he didn’t really know the correct pronunciation. “It means, ‘Strength and Honor.’”_

_She smiled and slid her arm through his. “That’s perfect for you. Strength and Honor—you get those traits from your dad.”_

_Justin had only picked those words because he had recently watched Gladiator with Bryce and his boys and he had thought the phrase sounded cool. But, now, thinking of those admirable qualities as a legacy from his father… It made the tattoo more meaningful. More special._

_“Thanks, Mom.”_

_‘Vires et Honestas’ became Justin’s creed._

_He failed to live up to it._

 

* * *

 

**Visit #5** _Saturday, November 24th_

Justin’s therapist recommended that he confront his mother about how he felt about his childhood. It was a forbidden topic, but Matt and Lainie approved. They thought it would be a good step forward in the “healing process.” The suggestion, and its rationale, sounded like bullshit to Justin, but he was as sick of his own crap as anyone else. Why the fuck not?

So, in a corner booth of an Italian restaurant, sitting beside Matt and facing his mother, he steeled himself for a second and then dived right in. “Why didn’t you stop your boyfriends from hurting me?”

“Who?” His mom tilted her head at him.

“Your boyfriends.”

“I heard you. _Which_ boyfriend?” 

Justin didn’t know if she had to ask because there had been so many or because she didn’t think that any of them had ever really abused him at all. “Aaron. Geordie. Darnell. Seth. Take your pick, Mom.”

“I did stop them! I got them to back off. You know I did, Justin. Even when you were the one who started the fights in the first place, I stood up for you. I did my best, baby, and sometimes… They hurt me too, you know?”

“I know, Mom.” It had been the worst part of his childhood, seeing her being hurt and being powerless to prevent it. And maybe that had been why she couldn’t stand up for him: She had taken too many blows and the impacts had knocked all the feeling out of her. Add in the toxic cocktail of booze and ecstasy and heroin and cocaine and she had been left vacant and drained. Numb to Justin’s existence.

His mother jerked her head, as if the motion could shake out everything unpleasant. “There’s no use dwelling on that now. That’s all behind you. Just look at you.” She smiled. “You’re happy. You’re healthy. No worse for the wear.” 

“Yeah, I am happy,” he conceded. “But I’m also fucked up. Damaged. And everything that happened, it’ll never be behind me. I’ll have to carry it around with me forever. All those times you didn’t come home and I had nothing to eat. All those times you passed out and I thought you were dead. Every time one of your boyfriends came at me and you completely shut down and left me to face it alone.”

Her eyes went dead and Justin knew that she was preparing an excuse. Deny. Erase. Conceal. “Wait,” he said before she could start speaking. “Just listen. Please.” She nodded, so he continued, “I know that sometimes you had it worse than I did. Your life was a shitshow even before I was born, and I made everything harder. I’m sorry about that, but I didn’t choose to be born. I didn’t choose the men in our lives.” 

He exhaled shakily. “I’ve screwed up, Mom. I did unforgivable things to a lot of people. Because I was a bully. Because I was a fucking coward. Too weak to stand up for what was right. I’m a better person now, but I should have been better from the start. I should have been strong and honorable and brave, and I wasn’t.”

He paused and simply breathed. _In. Out. In. Out._ This next part would be the hardest. For the longest time, Justin had convinced himself that his mother hadn’t _hurt_ him. That she had been a victim too and, therefore, not at fault. Weak but not complicit. But that wasn’t entirely true. 

“You should have done better too, Mom. You should have protected me. I was a little boy, and you were a grown-up. You were my _mom_. I know you think you did your best, but you could have done more. You _should_ have done more. Called the police. Kicked them out. Told them to ‘Fuck off.’ Something. Anything.” 

His mom blinked a few times. She scratched her arm. “Okay, honey. I understand why you might see it that way.” She ate a strawberry—untroubled, unconcerned. Justin wasn’t disappointed. Her response didn’t really matter because it wasn’t about her hearing it. It was about him finally being able to say it.

“Was my dad a good man?” He slouched back in his seat. “I want the truth, Mom. Not some fairytale about him being a mechanic who rescued puppies and won dart championships in bars but was too immature to be a father.”

“Your dad…” She sighed. “No, he wasn’t a good man. Not even a little bit.”

Justin wrapped his arms around himself, trying to contain the hurt and not let it leak out. “You always said I was just like him.”

“You are.” His mother’s eyes widened and she tried to backtrack, but the knife had already sunk in to the hilt. “Oh, Justin, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Like what? You didn’t mean it how it sounded? How else could you have meant it?” He was fed up, not with this conversation, but all of it—dealing with her, being around her, comparing her to Lainie, resenting her, missing her, hoping she had changed. “When I was gone, did you ever wonder if I was okay? If I was safe? Even once?”

If this was a battle, those questions made him the victor. His mother’s mouth opened slightly, but, conceding defeated, she shook her head and looked away. A strange sense of relief flooded Justin. She had, by saying nothing, finally said everything he needed to hear. 

“Can we go?” he asked Matt. 

“Yes, son, we can.”

Later, once they reached the car, Matt asked gently, “Was this the last visit? Say the word, kid.”

“I don’t know,” Justin admitted. “I don’t know what I want.” _She had no problem abandoning me. Why is it so fucking hard to return the favor?_

“That’s okay,” Matt said. “Take your time. I’m here to listen if you want to talk it out. Or to sit with you. Or to leave you alone.”

Justin did not say anything, too choked up by the kindness and patience of the man who called himself his father. He knew that Matt would sit in the hot car with him all afternoon, even all night, waiting for him to find the right words. And if he never found them, that would be okay too. It wouldn’t be an issue. Or an inconvenience.

Justin’s knee-jerk reaction had always been to shut people out, to not have to deal with his shit. But, this time, he realized that he _did_ want to talk. He needed someone to tell him what to do. Someone who would see through all the lies and nonsense. Someone who would take his murky emotions and distill them into something clear and pure. There was only one person he trusted enough to do all of those things for him. 

“Let’s go home,” Justin decided. “Clay should be back from his therapy appointment soon, right?”

Matt smiled with instant understanding. “He should, and I know he’d be willing to make time for you.”

Justin bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, suddenly struck by how selfish he was being. Clay had been wound so fucking tight lately, and, while Justin didn’t usually mind getting on his brother’s nerves, he never wanted the irritation to turn into actual nastiness between them.

“His college applications are really freaking him out,” he said. “He’ll probably want to get right back to work on them when he gets home. He hates being interrupted.”

“I think you’ll find he’d listen regardless,” Matt assured him.

“You think?”

“If it’s you asking, I can guarantee it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • If you do not like the pairing of Justin/Alex, pretend Matt came to the “earth-shattering” realization that Justin wanted to sign up for guitar lessons, idk, :D :D
> 
> • Part two: Justin reveals to Clay the real reason his mother has returned and asks for his advice.


	22. Letting Go #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justin talks to Clay about his mother and asks for his advice. (Part 2 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: November 24th
> 
> This chapter features _very soft_ brothers because I was in that kind of mood. [Also, thanks to PureForestGuardian for the hug suggestion.]
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, **22** , 23

Justin swung the water bottle into the air in a graceful arc and then caught it behind his back. He flipped it up again with a flick of his wrist. The bottle spun end-over-end before landing upright on the sidewalk in perfect time with the loud slam of the front door.

Clay stared down at him from the porch.

“Hey, Clay.”

“Hey?” Clay crossed his arms in irritation. “That’s really how you’re going to greet me?”

Justin shrugged, putting a lot of effort into the sluggish motion so that it would appear appropriately aloof. Inwardly, however, he was a bundle of raw nerve endings. He knew Clay was too, albeit for an entirely different reason. Weren’t they a fucking matched pair? 

Clay squinted at him. “Why did an alert just pop up on my phone that says my ‘Meeting with Justin’ is in…” He glanced at his phone. “13 minutes?”

Justin bypassed the question. “Did you finish your application for Cornell?”

“Yes.” 

“Princeton?”

“Almost.” Clay walked down the porch steps and, because he was acting like the sun was his mortal enemy, Justin removed his baseball cap and put it on Clay’s head. He didn’t protest.

Justin patted him on the shoulder. “You’re way too stressed over all that college shit. They’re fuckers if they don’t admit you. Total assholes.”

Clay raised one eyebrow. “Why don’t you call up the admissions office at Princeton and tell them that?”

“I will,” Justin said. “A recommendation from me will get you in for sure.”

“Doubtful.” Clay adjusted the baseball cap and then gestured at the partially filled water bottle sitting on the sidewalk. “What the fuck are you doing anyway?”

“Oh.” Justin picked up the bottle. “Trying to get the bottle to land upright after I flip it.” He demonstrated the trick.

Clay was not impressed. “Okay, better question: Why the fuck are you doing that?”

“Because it’s a skill. You want to try?”

Clay scoffed. “No.” He glanced upward, annoyed. “Well…” He sighed dramatically. “Okay.” He snatched the bottle out of Justin’s hand and then somehow managed to flip it upward into his own face. Justin tried not to laugh, but Clay’s shocked stupor was impossible to resist.

Justin covered his mouth with a fist when a glare was directed his way. “You almost got it,” he encouraged. “Try again.” Clay attempted the flip a few more times (all failures) before giving up and throwing the water bottle at him, a little too harshly in Justin’s opinion. 

“So,” Clay said, waving his hands around vaguely. “What’s with this meeting?” 

Justin crinkled the plastic bottle, struggling to speak. Words slid away from him on the best of days, got caught up in his brain and came tripping out of his mouth as confused syllables, all twisted and wrong. “Fuck” and “shit” were his crutches but they could only go so far. He wished he were a telepath like the Drakonic species in _Alien Killer Robots_. Then, he could beam his thoughts directly into Clay’s brain and say, _“Do you see?”_

Clay, impatient, bumped Justin’s leg with his sneaker. “Dude, I’m here, against my better judgment. Talk.”

After another minute, Justin began, “I was, uh, borrowing… well, maybe not borrowing… uh… Your phone was on the desk, and I saw that you didn’t have anything scheduled right now, and I kinda need your advice.” He hesitated and then added, “If you’re not busy.” He tried to make it sound like it was _no big deal_ (even though it was), in case Clay freaked the fuck out about being pulled away from his college applications. 

He didn’t freak out. Instead, he studied Justin thoughtfully. “Okay, A) Do not use my phone. It’s MY phone. And B) I’m never too busy to talk to you… except maybe right now because C) The fact that you scheduled a meeting like some kind of white-collar professional is literally terrifying.” A slight scowl appeared. “What kind of shit did you get yourself into now?”

“Why do you automatically assume I did something?”

“It’s a valid hypothesis based on past experience. And your face really sells it.”

“My face?!”

“Yeah. Mix ‘I’ve massively screwed up’ with ‘I’m not equipped for this,’ and that’s what you’ve got working for you right now.”

Justin didn’t really have the energy to trade insults today, but he mustered one up anyway, “Well, your face screams, ‘I’m never going to get laid because I can’t fucking relax for the thirty seconds it takes to get the job done.’”

“Fuck you,” Clay said, kindly. “I could at least last a minute.” He looked pitifully at Justin. “Maybe?”

Justin laughed. “Not the first time you get your dick wet. You’ll see.” He walked up the porch steps and sat on the top one, dejectedly leaning his elbows on his knees.

Clay joined him. “What’s up?” His voice was serious. Wary.

They had started out with carefree, senseless teasing and now they were nose-diving straight into the doom and gloom. It was the way they did things. It wasn’t difficult to navigate—not when you trusted the other person to instinctually realign to your shift in mood. Well, the mood had shifted, and Clay had realigned.

Justin hesitated for a long moment (too long) but Clay kept looking at him patiently, so he forced himself to say, “It’s about my mom.”

Clay nodded, a silent encouragement. 

“I lied to you about why she came back.”

“I know you did,” Clay said evenly, as if it were obvious, as if it hadn’t been a deceit at all.

“Oh.” Justin shouldn’t have been surprised. “And you didn’t say anything? Doesn’t seem like you.”

Clay gave him a pained smile, which was easy to interpret: _I wanted to say something, but I didn’t, so you should be fucking grateful because I had a lot to say._ When that message had been successfully communicated nonverbally, Clay went on, “I figured you would tell me when you were ready.” He looked away. “Why’d she come back?”

“Don’t lose your shit,” Justin warned. 

Clay groaned. “I already don’t like where this is going.”

“My mom came back… because of Seth.” He tensed for the explosion, but it didn’t come.

Instead, Clay frowned. He fidgeted with the baseball cap. When he started speaking, he did so slowly and in a falsely cheerful voice, like Justin was five years old and Clay was his kindergarten teacher. “Seth is in jail. Until the end of December. Mom signed up for one of those victim notification alerts when he gets released. And there’s no way he knew how to contact your mom from jail. Did you get clobbered during basketball practice or something and lose your long-term memory?”

“No, dipshit. I know Seth’s in jail!” Hearing himself, Justin winced. He redirected his anger at a more appropriate target by grinding his teeth into his lip. “Seth has people on the outside. And… one of them found my mom and told her that she has to pay back the money I stole. Apparently, I stole $10,000.” 

“$10,000? Are you fucking kidding me?” Clay’s face became so tight with outrage that Justin started to doubt the wisdom of telling him any of this at all. He didn’t want him to have a fucking panic attack. Or a stroke.

His fury was justified though. Seth was a fucking prick. Even though Justin had paid back every cent that he owed his mom’s ex-boyfriend, the debt was constantly inflating. The sum would never be paid back in full—Seth would never allow it to be. What did you call what Seth was doing? Price gouging? Predatory lending? Extortion? Whatever it was, it was 100% bullshit.

But, to be fair... Justin should have known better than to steal money from a drug dealer in the first place. Why had he thought that would work out? He should have toughed it out on the Oakland streets from the start. What had Seth’s money bought him? A few days in shitty motels? Oxy and heroin? He could have gotten the drugs another way if he had been desperate enough. And stealing from Seth the second time had been the biggest fucking mistake of all. It had brought him nothing but grief. 

“It gets better,” Justin added bitterly.

“Oh, I’m sure.” 

“If my mom doesn’t pay, word on the street is that Seth’s going to kill me when he gets out of jail.”

“Fuck, Justin!” Clay swung his arm out wildly and would have smacked it into Justin’s face if he hadn’t jerked backward at the last second. Clay didn’t even notice (or apologize) because his eyes had darkened and he was off on a rant, “You’re a complete idiot. It’s like you never learn! The one thing we absolutely agreed on was not to lie about Seth anymore. Why didn’t you tell Mom and Dad?” 

Justin crossed his arms defensively. “Because I’m greedy, okay?” 

“Greedy?” Clay went very still and he looked at him like he’d never seen him before. “What do you mean?”

“If your parents had known about Seth, they wouldn’t have let me see my mom, and I didn’t want to have to choose. I thought I could have your parents _and_ have my mom too. A better version of her... without all the drama from her boyfriends or the drugs or any of the other bad shit. She’s my _mom_ , Clay. She sacrificed a lot for me when I was growing up. I owe her. And she... she needs me.”

In a flash, Justin realized that he sounded like his mom, who, time after time, had made excuses for her boyfriends beating the shit out of her. Who had refused to leave Seth because he “loved her.” Fuck, it made him want to vomit. _He wasn’t her. He wasn’t! Was he?_

Clay’s face was complicated. Unreadable. Finally, he said, “Dude. That’s not greedy. Not at all. I get it.” His words were soft and understanding. 

A depthless gratitude overwhelmed Justin, which he expressed by squishing an ant crawling on the porch step. “I didn’t know for sure… but I thought my mom might be lying.”

“About Seth?”

Justin shook his head. “No, not about Seth. That first day she showed up, she came asking for money. Not pocket change, but, like, serious money. She wanted me to ask your parents for cash and… she wanted… fuck, she wanted me to steal shit from your house for her to sell.” Clay did not appear shocked by this revelation. 

“I don’t know, Clay. I just don’t fucking know. She _might_ be trying to protect me, but it’s more likely that she’s working for Seth or using his threat as an excuse to take advantage and get a sweet deal for herself. If Seth put her up to it… well, she’s never been able to say no to him in the past.”

Clay nodded. “Okay, so her visits with you are a ploy to… what? Ingratiate herself and then convince you to help her out with the money?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But she only asked me to steal shit one time, on that first day. And I didn’t agree, Clay! You know I wouldn’t.”

“I know.” Clay’s reassurance was immediate, delivered without a trace of doubt. “So what do you think she’s really up to?” 

Justin didn’t know how to answer that question. “It doesn’t make sense. She hasn’t asked for money. And she acts like our visits are fucking math class or something. Or, worse, history class with Coach Patrick. Like… you’ve got to show up to get the grade but it’s boring as shit and you’d rather take a nap.”

“Well,” Clay said with a smile, “I like math class, but I understand what you mean.”

Justin mirrored Clay’s smile, but distractedly, because he fucking hated this conversation. He wanted to be done talking. He had already said enough. At this exact point, not all that long ago, he would have stalked off or made excuses or put on a fake mask of cheerfulness… so that he could go get drunk or high or have pointless sex with some girl he would forget the next morning. Running yourself hard and fast into the ground was an appealing way to deal with emotions. 

There was a better route, but it was hard to take it. _Don’t shut down. Fucking talk. It’s Clay, not Bryce._

“I… I feel guilty,” he said reluctantly. “If my mom really is trying to come up with $10,000, I feel like that’s on me. I should try to help her. Or at least make sure she’s okay. Because–, because that’s what _you_ did for me in July. I was drowning back then, and you made it so I could breathe. You made it go away. The only reason Seth’s in fucking jail at all is because of you. What you did–, shit, Clay, I’m trying to be more like you. Less selfish. More... empathic?”

“Empathetic,” Clay corrected.

“Oh, yeah, right. Empathetic.” 

Clay shook his head. “I’m not as good of a person as you think I am, Justin.”

“Maybe not. But I haven’t met anyone else who compares.” _Fuck._ That was awkward as fuck. He had been watching too many damn soap operas with the Jensens’ 70-year-old senile neighbor. To try to erase the memory of what he had just said, Justin propped his mud-encrusted sneakers up on Clay’s jeans.

“Ugh, get your gross shoes off of me.” Clay pushed his legs away. “Fuck, Justin, now I’m going to have to wash my pants.”

“You mean you’re going to have to get your mom to wash them?”

“Same difference.”

“Is it?”

Clay scraped a clump of mud off his jeans and, with a grin, rubbed it onto Justin’s cheek. Justin laughed at the immature response; coming from his uptight brother, it was a fucking miracle. Under his tutelage, Clay had come a long way. (He still had a long way to go.)

“You think that bothers me?” Justin asked with a wink. “I like getting dirty.”

Clay bounced his legs on the step with a sound of disgust. “Do you have to make everything sexual?”

“You went there, not me!” Justin brushed the dirt off his cheek and took a left turn back to _dead serious_. “What should I do, Clay?”

Shift. Realign. 

Clay squinted his eyes and sucked in his cheeks. The intense concentration aged him five years. “You really want my opinion? Because I’m not gonna hold back.”

“That’s why I asked you.”

“I’m going to be brutally honest.”

“Okay.”

“Really? Because–”

“Will you fucking just say whatever it is?”

“Screw you,” Clay said, as a matter of course, before continuing, “Okay, look. Your mom’s a shit mom. There's not a nicer way to put it. I get why you want to look after her, and maybe that stuff with Seth is her messed-up version of protecting you, I don't know. But I also don't care.” 

Clay’s jaw clenched and his voice became thick with an emotion that straddled the line between anger and desperation. “She doesn't deserve you. Every time you come back from seeing her, you're so broken down and touchy and also kind of a dick, to be honest. It reminds me of how you used to be. I hate that version of you, and I think you hate it too.”

Justin nodded in confirmation, guilt creeping inward like a poison. He hated the idea that he had somehow disappointed Clay, or that he had backslid into Justin Foley, major douche. “You’re right. I’m sorry if I took my crap out on you.”

Clay blinked in confusion and shook his head. “No, man, it’s not about that. It’s just–, Mom and Dad… They irritate me and frustrate me, and I wish they’d take an extended vacation and leave us alone every once in a while, but they never make me feel like shit. They don’t make me fend for myself. It doesn’t hurt me to be around them.” 

He stooped forward and began to pick the clumps of mud off of Justin’s shoes and flick them onto the sidewalk. Justin recognized the action for what it was: When Clay couldn’t fix people, he tried to fix the nearest reachable object instead. His brother was silent for so long and so focused on his task that Justin thought he was done speaking. But it turned out that he was merely weighing his next words. 

“I know I’m a biased observer, but I think your mom-... I think _Amber_ is manipulating you. Whatever she’s got going on, it’s not going to end well. If she really is dealing with Seth, fine, whatever. That’s on her. You and me… We already dealt with him, and when he gets out of jail in December, Mom— _our_ Mom—is going to make sure he doesn’t bother us.”

Clay waited expectantly. Justin knew it was his turn to make a comment, but his thoughts were still jumbled, a tangled ball of string inside his cluttered mind. Clay quickly caught on and continued, “This is your decision, and I don’t think you should trust me to make it for you. I want _you_ to decide, because I know you love your mom, and it’s complicated for you. But… I–” Clay rocked back upright and gripped Justin’s wrist. “Selfishly, I want you to choose _us_.” 

The pressure on Justin’s wrist bordered on painful, but it was a welcome discomfort because it was a linkage to Clay, an anchor to family.

“That’s how I see it,” Clay said. “But, whatever you decide, I’m here for you. I’ll support you.” He released Justin’s wrist, slowly, by degrees—in such a way that it didn’t feel like an absence at all once his touch was gone.

The controlled mask that Justin had tried to maintain crumbled away. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and then down over his face. “I’m really fucking tired, Clay. When it comes to my mom, I feel like I’m fighting against the current. I never drown, but I can never outpace it. It’s so damn exhausting.” 

Their knees brushed, an unintentional connection, and then an elbow purposefully nudged his own. “So, let go. Don’t fight it.” Clay’s eyes—as crisp and clear and blue as the sky—locked on his and didn’t waver. “Just let go.” 

Justin’s muscles relaxed. It was like he could breathe again for the first time in hours. He had been marinating in his pain, stewing in his indecision for so long, but Clay, in the space of five minutes, had made the situation straightforward. A foregone conclusion. X equals nine. 

It was hard for him to navigate around absolutes, but Clay could always break the world down into simple terms: good, bad; right, wrong; do this, don’t do that. His stubborn mindset made him courageous and honorable, but it also made him self-sacrificial, a quality that terrified Justin because it made him hard to protect. 

_We’re safe._ Why the fuck was he still thinking in terms of danger? Would he ever stop being on edge? (Hypervigilance—that’s what therapist #2 called it.)

Unexpectedly, Clay collapsed against him. The sideways hug was bumbled and stilted and Justin nearly made fun of him for it, but then Clay said, “Family shouldn’t hurt, okay?” His whispered words were so fucking sincere that Justin, uncomfortable, pinched his brother’s arm lightly. “Did that hurt?” he asked.

“You just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?” Clay pulled away in a huff.

Justin caught his elbow, steered him back, and enveloped Clay in a real hug, one that was comfort and safety and _fuck you for making me vulnerable_ but, also, _it’s okay to be vulnerable with you._ Clay’s familiar breathing, the soothing texture of his sweater beneath Justin’s fingertips, the luxury of not having to worry if the embrace had lingered too long: This was what it meant to have a brother. It was a certainty and a stillness.

Quietly, unhurriedly, Clay asked, “What are you thinking?”

Justin moved back and considered the question. But, really, there was nothing left to consider. If Clay thought it was okay… if he didn’t think it was a betrayal of Justin’s birth and blood… then Justin believed him.

“I don’t want to see my mom anymore.”

“Okay, cool.” Clay smiled. “Tell Mom and Dad.” He reached up to remove the baseball cap and then tugged it down on Justin’s head, cap backward, the way it had been at the start of their conversation. He stood up, grabbed the water bottle, and tried one more time to flip it. It landed on its side and rolled off down the sidewalk. Clay cursed. “How the fuck did you get this to land upright?”

Justin retrieved the bottle. “There’s a trick to it. Want me to show you?”

“Yes.”

He handed the bottle to Clay and placed his hand over his brother’s to adjust the position of his fingers. “Okay, so keep your grip near the cap. Then, flick your wrist up and away.” He demonstrated the motion by maneuvering Clay’s wrist into a mock upward swing. “Let go when the bottom of the bottle is pointed up, half-way through the first spin.” 

Clay tried and failed, but not as spectacularly as he had earlier. 

“That was good, but you have to flick your wrist, not your arm. Don’t hold on so long either.” 

Five attempts later, and Clay had mastered it. 

“Huh,” he said, impressed with himself. “It’s really not that hard once you get the hang of it. It’s all about the angular momentum, I’m guessing? Center of gravity?”

“Uh,” Justin said. “Yeah, definitely.” 

They switched off, each taking a turn and then passing the bottle over. Every time they flipped it, the water bottle spun up into the air, chaotic and unbalanced, and then it righted itself and landed straight and true. Predictable. _Easy._ The way it was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The references to Justin and Clay dealing with Seth over the summer are detailed in my companion story, “Some Baptize in Water, Some in Flames.” All the pertinent details: Seth demands increasing amounts of money from Justin as repayment for the money he stole. Clay tricks Seth into committing a crime. Seth is thrown in jail. :)
> 
> • Part three: Matt’s secret payoff to Amber comes to light. Justin says goodbye to his mother.


	23. Letting Go #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the support of his new family, Justin says goodbye to his biological mother. (Part 3 of 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: November 27th
> 
> *** Here are the chapters (to date) in chronological order: 4, 2, 1, 16, 6, 5, 17, 8, 9, 10, 3, 20, 24, 12, 13, 14, 15, 18, 7, 11, 19, 21, 22, **23**

**Part Three**

_“I don’t want to see my mom anymore.”_ It was less than ten words. No tongue twisters. No unpronounceable SAT vocabulary. It was still really difficult to say. Even simple words were hard to get past your lips if the consequences of saying them were monumental.

Justin should have told Matt and Lainie about his decision right after talking to Clay, but he didn’t. He didn’t tell them the next day either. Or the next. Why rush it? He had time. Clay wouldn’t say anything, and Justin only needed a few days to wrap his head around it. 

Of course, he hadn’t counted on coming out of school on Tuesday and finding his mother casually leaning against the Prius. She was smoking a cigarette, and she smiled when she saw him.

“What are you doing here?” Clay asked bluntly. “You can’t be here.”

“I need a ride,” she said. “For a job interview in Oakland. Justin, I wouldn’t ask–, but I have no other way to get there. And the job’s mine if I show up. Please. I need this, baby.”

Well, fuck. If he was going to say goodbye to her, he might as well do it on a positive note. Do her one final favor. Give her a last memory of him that wasn’t bitter or shameful.

“Justin, no,” Clay said before he could answer. “We should call Mom and Dad.”

“Where’s the interview?” Justin asked. 

Clay scowled. “You’re being an idiot right now.” 

His mom reached into her pocket and handed him a piece of paper with a neatly printed address on it. Clay continued to complain: “This is a bad idea. And, you know what? _I’m_ the one who’s going to get in trouble for it. Are you fucking listening?” Clay hit him on the shoulder.

“No.” Justin handed his backpack to Clay to give him something to do other than run his mouth. Clay deposited Justin’s backpack, as well as his own, into the backseat while Justin typed the address into his phone. His mother trembled at his side, fingers compulsively picking at her shirtsleeves. There was no way in hell she was going to get the job; everything about her right now screamed _junkie_. Justin resented her for it. He pitied her too, and he envied her even more.

Clay shut the car door and returned to defiantly stare at him. It made Justin uncomfortable enough to feel guilty. “We have to drop Clay off at home first.”

His mother sniffed. “Didn’t invite him in the first place.”

“Fuck.” Clay threw up his hands. “Fine. If you’re determined to do this, I’m coming with you. You’re not going with her alone.”

Justin imagined his mother and brother bickering for the entire trip. It would be the road trip from hell. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Clay said stubbornly. “I still think we should call Mom. Or get Amber a bus ticket or something.” Clay plucked the cigarette out of her hand and ground it out on the pavement. “You can’t smoke on school property. Or in our car."

His mom pulled out another cigarette. After she lit it, she blew the smoke into Clay’s face. Clay coughed and cursed and then coughed again. Justin, in disgust—not at the smoking but at the affront to Clay—snatched the new cigarette away. “Do that again, and I’ll change my mind.”

“What? I can’t even smoke in front of you now? You never used to care.”

“Yeah, well, things change.” Justin looked back at his phone. He zoomed the map out so he could see which Oakland neighborhood it was. “Fuck me,” he said, sorely tempted to ask his mom for a smoke. “Who gave you this address?”

His mom started to fidget. “Well, I-, it’s just the address they gave me.”

“Who?” When she didn’t reply, Justin demanded, “Give me your purse.” She clutched it close to her body. “I said, give me your purse!” He snatched it away and pulled out a large wrapped bag of tiny crystals. 

Clay came closer and his eyes widened in alarm. “Is that meth?” 

It wasn’t crystal meth, but his mom probably thought it was. Justin placed the bag on the hood of the car and ripped open the package. His mom protested weakly (“Baby, he’s gonna be pissed if it gets back to him that I tampered with his drugs!”). Justin picked up a crystal and, with resolution, put it into his mouth. 

Clay, unsurprisingly, freaked the fuck out, and he shoved his grubby fingers inside Justin’s mouth (his mouth! jesus fuck) to try to extract it. “Spit it out!”

Justin rolled the crystal to the tip of his tongue so that Clay could flick the piece to the ground. Why did his brother have to be such a spaz? The parking lot was full of nosy students… Who knew what nasty rumors were going to be started about them now?

Clay wiped his fingers on his pants. “Fuck, Justin. It’s like you have an oral fixation or something.” He stared at his fingers in dismay. “I hate you so much.”

Justin didn’t have much sympathy because Clay had done it to himself. But he gripped Clay’s shoulder in consolation anyway, because, as absurd an action as it had been, it was kind of sweet how committed Clay was to making sure he didn’t relapse. “Would you relax? It’s not meth. It’s sea salt.”

“What?” Clay looked down at the bag suspiciously.

“No, it’s meth,” his mom insisted, shock evident in her tone.

Clay must have trusted Justin (which was probably a mistake) because he tried a piece for himself. It made a loud crunch between his teeth before he spat it out. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Even though the answer was obvious, Justin asked his mom the question anyway: “Who gave you this?”

She grabbed his arm and wrenched him closer. “Justin, I didn’t know! Shane—Seth’s man—he said that if I made this delivery, your debt would be paid off. For good.”

“Seth?!” Clay was instantly simmering, but, this time, his intensity was not directed at Justin. He narrowed his eyes at Justin’s mother. “Get the fuck off him.” When she didn’t obey, Clay pried her fingers off of Justin’s arm and pushed her hand away. 

Justin didn’t have it in him to be outraged. He was… drained. _Why couldn’t it have ended without one more complication?_ “This was your ‘job interview’? Shit, Mom. That address Seth was sending you to… It’s in gang territory. They don’t let rivals sell there. And this–” He picked up the bag of salt crystals and thrust it against her chest. “This is what Seth uses as a test for his rookies to make sure he can trust them with real product.” 

Seeing that his mom wasn’t getting it, he laid it out for her: “He set you up. He was trying to get you killed. A drug deal gone wrong in gang territory: nobody would have thought twice about it.”

“No.” His mom shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that. He–, he loved me.”

“He. Does. Not. Love. You. Jesus, Mom, listen to yourself! Whose idea was it that I be the one to drive you for the drop-off?” Her silence indicated that it was what he feared—it has been Seth’s idea. “He–, Seth’s using you, Mom, to... to teach _me_ a lesson. He wanted–, fuck.” Justin realized the full impact of what he had almost done. Seth had wanted to kill his mother... and he had wanted Justin to witness it. As punishment for stealing his money or for getting him locked up in jail. _And I almost brought Clay along._

He raked his hands through his hair. A coil of rage built and swelled and it quickly wiped out any lingering weariness and any vestige of sympathy. “You could have gotten Clay killed!” He paused and then added, “And me! And yourself. Don’t you care?”

His mom was clearly rattled, but she tried to play it off by retreating back into her customary apathy with a half-hearted shrug. “I’m not surprised. That’s what men do, Justin. Use and abuse. That’s all they do.”

“Not all men,” Justin countered. “Just the men you pick.”

“Not all men? Are you talking about Matt Jensen?” Her mouth tightened and she crossed her arms defensively.

Justin stepped away from her. “Come on, Clay. Let’s go.”

His mother’s voice followed him as he moved to the driver’s side. “You think this kid’s dad is a saint? He’s using me too, Justin. He’s been giving me $200 to keep seeing you every other week… You think there’s not an ulterior motive there? He’s treating me like a whore.”

Justin froze, his hand on the door handle. “You’re lying.” He instinctively looked to Clay to deny the accusation, but, for some reason, Clay decided that now was the perfect time to clam up and pick at the tree sap that had fallen on the Prius.

“Ask him,” his mom said.

There was a low buzz in Justin’s head, but he refused to acknowledge it. “I will.” He opened the driver’s side door and stared his mother down. “Don’t show up here again. Or at our house.” He didn’t listen to her reply but instead slammed the car door. He waited for Clay to get settled and then sped out of the parking space without a backward glance.

Clay didn’t say anything as Justin drove, which was a miracle, and Justin was eternally grateful for it because he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He had finally received the last piece of the puzzle that was his mother’s reappearance and he didn’t like how perfectly it fit. It made sense. $200 a visit. _Why else would she have wanted to see me except for money?_

When Justin parked the car, they both sat in awkward silence until Justin asked quietly, “Did you know?”

“Know what?” 

“That your dad was paying my mom to see me?” Justin hated the idea that Clay could have lied to him, hated it even more than the idea that the payoff had happened at all. _But it’s not like I could judge you if you had. I lie all the time._

“No! I would have said something, I swear.” 

Justin nodded, the pent-up tension in his body easing somewhat. “I know you would have.” And he did know. Why had he even asked? Justin was the resident liar; Clay consistently lied about himself—but not much else. (His brother would claim that he was okay even while his foot was being amputated.)

“It does fit though.” Clay had clearly put the puzzle together during the drive as well. “As an explanation for what Amber was doing. She wanted money… and Dad gave it to her. I mean, shit, I’m sorry. I know it fucking sucks, but… Dad would do something like that. He’s extreme, sometimes, when it comes to us.” Clay looked at him guiltily and then turned his head away. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Jesus.” Justin swallowed. “ _I’m_ sorry for almost bringing you to a drug shootout or whatever the fuck that would have been.”

“Yeah, about that…” Clay began. “What do you want to tell Mom and Dad?”

Justin didn’t know what to say. He heard Clay’s unspoken offer: _Choose a path and I’ll follow you._ Justin had been wrong. His brother didn’t lie about much, but he would lie about a lot if Justin asked him to. He was loyal, not Bryce’s brand of loyalty—the kind that asked you to compromise yourself—but the Jensen kind of loyalty, which was given out of love and never required any compromise. It was a fine line to walk, but Clay walked it well.

Justin wanted to be loyal too, to his new parents, and to Clay. “I want to tell them... the truth. About everything.” 

“Okay,” Clay readily agreed. “But can we maybe make it clear that I was opposed to the whole thing with Amber? And also maybe leave out the fact that you told me about Seth a few days ago?”

“Why?”

“Well… there’s no reason we should both get grounded, right?”

 _You fucker. I take back everything nice I just thought about you._ “Nope. I’m going to tell them you knew about everything. Co-conspirator, all the way.” They both knew Justin would do nothing of the kind; it was still fun to threaten it.

Clay blinked at him. “Wow. Seriously? You are the worst brother ever.”

“Not if you’re in the running.” Justin reached into the backseat and handed Clay his backpack.

Clay took it and then reached for Justin’s backpack. (Justin would have preferred to just leave his in the car; homework wasn't worth his attention tonight.) Clay smiled at him, and it was his evil smile. “I literally pulled you off the street and nursed you back to sobriety. You lucked out when you got me as your brother.” He tossed the backpack at Justin and got out of the car.

“Bullshit,” Justin said, opening his car door. “You _chose_ me, because I’m irresistible, but I- I got stuck with you.”

They walked up the sidewalk in lockstep. “This isn’t even up for debate,” Clay protested. “I’m older, and more mature, and I’m always right. Case closed.”

“Well, I’m a better friend.”

“Tony would disagree.”

“And Zach would kick his ass.” Justin used his key to unlock the front door.

The alarm shrieked loudly. Clay lazily input the code. “Tony would crush Zach. No contest.” 

Justin threw his backpack on the floor. “Zach wins based on height alone. And muscle.”

Clay shoved him, but Justin had good balance and it had no effect. “Pick up your backpack or Dad will trip on it when he comes home.” Justin scooted it over with his foot until it touched the wall, daring Clay to chastise him further. Clay did dare: “See? I’m _definitely_ the better son.”

Clay had meant it as a joke, but the delivery landed wrong, and Justin stiffened. “Yeah, you are.”

The atmosphere between them flipped from a strained lightheartedness to simply strain. “Shit,” Clay said, wincing. “Let’s go eat a whole box of cookies and ruin our dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because I need sugar. And so do you.”

It was as good a reason as any.

 

* * *

 

They ate the only remaining box of chocolate chip cookies and then decided to make brownies. The kitchen was a mess by the time they were finished and, because baking was exhausting (especially baking with Clay), they left the mess exactly as it was and went to watch TV.

They forgot about the kitchen until Matt came home and they heard his grunt of disapproval.

“Shit,” Clay said.

“Shit,” Justin agreed.

Matt entered the den and studied them, his arms crossed, until Justin offered up the plate of brownies. Matt took two of their (fucking amazing) chocolate creations before marching them off to the kitchen to clean up. He didn’t even scold them. He just told them not to mention it to Lainie and then he asked them to give him two more brownies for later in exchange for his silence. 

Matt was always so fucking chill. But what Matt had done with Justin’s mother… paying $200 to entice her to see him... that didn’t feel chill. It felt like manipulation.

 

* * *

 

Dinner was awkward. Justin wasn’t hungry, and not just because he had stuffed himself with cookies and brownies. He tried to nibble at Matt’s pot roast but Clay, equally uninterested in any food that wasn’t chocolate, didn’t even try. All Clay did was push his dinner around his plate until it made nice geometric designs. Fine art at its finest. 

Lainie did not approve of food being used for creative expression. She kept looking between them, worry lines forming around her eyes. After she had finished her meal, she began her cross-examination: “Are you boys fighting?”

“What?” Justin asked, startled by the assumption. “No.”

“No,” Clay repeated morosely.

“Okay,” Lainie continued. “Did something happen at school today?” They said nothing, so she pressed, “Boys? I will call the school if I have to.”

Matt put down his cup. “They were fine earlier, Lainie. Clay? Justin? Start talking.”

Best get it over with…

Justin told them everything: his mother’s request that he steal from their home, the fake crystal meth, Seth’s demand of $10,000, the reason he had lied to them (or, as Clay helpfully added, “It wasn’t really a lie so much as it was a failure to correct a pre-existing misconception.”). Matt and Lainie were calm as he explained it all and when they spoke, to ask questions or express concern, their voices were completely neutral. 

Justin guessed that he had thrown so many curve balls at Matt and Lainie this past year that they had come to expect another one at any moment. He didn’t know if there would come a point when it—when _he_ —became too much for them to handle. He knew that they loved him and that they would endure no small amount of discomfort for his sake, but everyone had their limit. Or, if they didn’t, they should.

“Justin,” Lainie said with a sigh, “You know that you should have told us all of this right away. The potential consequences of your actions…” Lainie left it there, but Justin knew she was thinking of worst-case scenarios. He had too.

“I wouldn’t have risked anything happening,” Justin said weakly. “Seth is in jail and the rest of it… with my mom… the lies and drama... it’s nothing new.”

Matt frowned. “Is that supposed to make us feel better?” 

Justin shrugged. “No. But I told you when it mattered.” _When it became dangerous to Clay._

“You did not tell us when it mattered!” Lainie was no longer calm. She was somewhere between disappointed and exasperated. “Clay, you’re dismissed from the table. Give us some time alone with your brother.”

“I think I’ll stay.” Clay (somewhat smugly) settled back in his chair. Justin didn’t know if he was staying out of support or because he wanted to watch the show. Probably both. 

“Justin,” Matt said, more evenly. “You kept crucial information from us, which led us to make an extremely poor decision. If we had known what was going on—that it involved Seth—we would never have allowed you to meet with your mother.”

Justin knew he shouldn’t say it, but he had to say it because, otherwise, he would always wonder whether his mother had been lying or not: “And if I had known that the only reason my mom kept showing up was you were paying her $200 a visit… I wouldn’t have wanted to see her!”

Lainie’s mouth dropped open. “Where did you get that idea? We certainly did not pay her anything.” She looked at Matt. “Right, Matt?” 

He coughed.

“Matt?” Lainie narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I did, Lainie.”

Hearing Matt admit it out loud finally made it real. And, because Lainie and Matt were silently facing off across the table, with their attention no longer focused on him, Justin was bold enough to say, “My mom’s not a fucking prostitute.”

Clay picked his fork up and then dropped it on his plate with a loud clatter. “This was a great dinner, guys. One of the best you’ve ever cooked. Maybe we should save some leftovers for tomorrow. Thoughts?”

“I am well aware of that, Justin,” Matt said, passing right over Clay’s comments. “That’s not what this was.”

“Forcing her to do something she didn’t want to do? For money? Sounds like prostitution to me.”

“I did not force her to do anything, young man.”

Justin’s hand was shaking, and there was no chance of keeping his temper leashed, not when it was straining at the end of a very frayed rope. “When you don’t have money, sometimes you don’t have a choice. You can’t get squeamish. You let people take advantage of you and you pretend it’s only charity... when really it’s something darker.” 

_Who the fuck am I even talking about right now?_ Realizing he had given up something he hadn’t wanted to, he quickly smothered it by being more direct, “My mom was using you for the money, but you… you were using her too. And you were using me. I thought she _cared_ about me... enough to want to see that I was okay. And now… I feel filthy and… it’s fucking bullshit, what you did.”

“You need to watch your language and your tone,” Matt said sharply.

“Why? You’re not my fucking father.” 

Lainie flinched. “Justin Andrew!”

Matt didn’t flinch, but the pain in his voice made Justin feel like shit. “I have a birth certificate that says otherwise.”

Regret made Justin’s throat tighten. It had been cruel to say those words. He hadn’t meant to say them. They had just come tumbling out because… 

Because Justin’s real father had split in the middle of the night rather than have to deal with him for a single second... whereas Matt had spent three (uncomfortable) hours a month dealing with a woman he clearly detested solely for Justin’s benefit. And his real mother wouldn’t have given Justin a dime she had found on the street without making a scene… but Matt had given up $1000 like it was nothing. The Jensens loved him when it wasn’t convenient, when it was hard. And it fucking stung—that people who weren’t biologically connected to him would care more than those who were.

Justin pushed his chair back, angry with himself for losing his composure, angry with Matt for his kindness, angry with Clay for the way he was glaring at him.

“We are not done speaking with you!” Lainie called after him as he stalked out of the room. 

“Lainie.” Justin paused at the foot of the stairs to listen to Matt’s response. “It’s okay. Let him go. He needs to cool down.” 

Justin ran up the stairs and he was tempted to slam the bedroom door but he balked at the last second and pushed it quietly closed. Two minutes later, Clay came barging into the room. The sound of Lainie and Matt arguing downstairs became more pronounced. 

Clay stood there, fuming. His fists were clenched and he looked like he wanted to tackle Justin to the ground and not in a friendly ‘let’s wrestle’ kind of way. “I know what Dad did was questionable, but what you said… Dad didn’t deserve that.”

Justin fell back on his bed and didn’t say anything.

“I kind of hate you right now,” Clay added.

“Good. Now fucking leave me alone.”

“Gladly.” Clay grabbed something off their desk and Justin didn’t have to sit up to know that he had left because he slammed the door with so much force that the bed frame shook.

 

* * *

 

The argument from downstairs had died down. Justin sat on his bed and waited. Matt or Lainie, at some point in the near future, would be making their appearance. It was a guarantee, and he was dreading it. His new parents were always gentle with him, even in punishment, and sometimes Justin wanted a confrontation with someone who would respond with only cruelty. Savagery could be more desirable than tenderness—it broke you less inside. 

To distract himself, he texted Zach a question about basketball practice. (He already knew the answer.) He texted Sheri and told her that Clay really wanted to hang out with her next weekend. (Clay would kill him, but, really, he should thank him instead.) Finally, he texted Alex 100 emojis in a row. Alex would hate it, especially once he figured out that they were totally random and there was no hidden message to decipher. (It was purely coincidental that there were so many hearts and eggplants in the mix.)

There was a knock at the door and, from the knock, Justin immediately knew that it was Matt because it was tentative and respectful rather than firm and insistent. (Clay would never knock.)

“Come in,” Justin called and threw his phone on the bedside table.

Matt poked his head in the door. “Can we talk?” 

Justin suspected that if he answered no, Matt wouldn’t leave. He would probably stand there for the rest of the evening and take whatever abuse Justin threw at him or wait in silence until Justin finally consented to a discussion.

“Yes,” he said, and he scooted over on the bed so that Matt could sit down beside him. 

Matt leaned against the wall, legs stretched out next to Justin’s. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” He gave him a broad, easy smile, one that he hoped appeared genuine and carefree. 

“Justin,” Matt sighed. “Don’t do that, son. Tell me how you’re really feeling.”

His smile, such as it was, sank away. He didn’t miss it. “It’s nothing good,” he warned Matt.

“Tell me anyway.” 

It was strange, having these types of conversations. He had gotten better at it, at expressing himself emotionally—first with Clay, and then with Alex, occasionally with Jess, and sometimes with Zach. But it was harder to do with authority figures. With his therapists, well, he had to give something of himself to keep them satisfied, but most of what he told them was a deflection, or a misdirection. 

Matt and Lainie were good listeners and they welcomed literally anything he wanted to tell them, but it still felt _unsafe_ for him to expose himself to the people who controlled his shelter and food. Which was fucking stupid because they would never take them away. And yet… he couldn’t shake the habit.

Justin lowered his head. “I guess I’m… I’m _hurt_. I’m hurt you would go behind my back and bribe my mom into seeing me. So many men in the past have used her to get what they wanted, and I never thought you would do it, too.” Matt nodded, so Justin went on, “But… I also see it’s not that simple. You were trying to do what you thought I wanted. Even though it’s not what I would have wanted. And all that money you spent... It was a waste. You know that, right?”

Matt gave him a long look. “I don’t care about the money. But I do care that I violated your trust. You know, Justin, adults make mistakes too, and this one was a big one for me. As a parent, sometimes you see that your child is hurting and you don’t think. You just react. I thought seeing your mother would make you happy, and that’s one of my top goals in life: Your happiness, Clay’s happiness, Lainie’s.” 

Matt had not raised his voice. He kept it level, the same way he did when they talked about basketball or chores or the morning crossword puzzle. It was soothing, and maybe that was the point. “I want to apologize to you, Justin. I shouldn’t have let you see Amber at all. That day she showed up here at the house… that should have been the end of it. Knowing what we knew about her, even before this information about Seth came to light, there was a high probability you were going to get hurt. And, as your father, I should have prioritized your well-being and safety over what you wanted.” He paused and then amended, “Over what I thought you wanted.”

Justin smiled, barely, but it was a real smile this time, of his own choosing. “That sounds like something Lainie would say.”

“Well, some of it she did say. I’m sure you heard us talking downstairs…?”

 _Talking? It sounded like fighting._ “Yeah.” Justin fiddled with the edge of his pillow sheet. “Is everything okay? With you and Lainie?”

Matt immediately laughed, head back, eyes glistening. Was he having a nervous breakdown? Apparently not, because he quickly quieted. 

“That’s the last thing you need to worry about, kid. Lainie and I are rock solid. Yes, we quarreled, but that’s a healthy part of marriage. And some of what she said... I needed to hear. The truth is that Amber didn’t want to agree to our rules until I incentivized her with cash, which was a major red flag I ignored. We have a special bond—you and I—and I didn’t want to be the bad guy and tell you, 'No, you can’t see your mom.' It was selfish, and I put my own desires above your needs. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Justin allowed. And it _was_ okay because Matt had explained the reasons behind it and they were understandable. “It’s actually, in a weird way, one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”

Matt let that comment sit and then, after a minute, he slowly raised his arm. “Are you all right with being touched?”

 _These fucking people._ “Yeah.” 

Matt carefully put his arm around Justin’s shoulder. It didn’t feel unsafe, so Justin leaned into the embrace and he rested his head against Matt’s chest. Matt pulled him closer and they were—what?—cuddling? Justin was 17 fucking years old and maybe 17-years-olds didn’t ordinarily do this with their fathers, but Justin had never had a father before and, besides, why the fuck did it even matter what other families did? It was what _they_ did. 

“I’m sorry, too. You _are_ my father. I was upset, but I shouldn’t have said… what I said. I don’t even know why I said it.”

“I do.” The words rumbled against Justin’s ear. “Do you know how many times Lainie and I have heard parents in our adoption group talk about how their kids have screamed, ‘You’re not my real dad!’ or ‘You’re not my mom!’? It’s an easy blow, and we were expecting it from you at some point. Actually, to be honest, we’re surprised it took this long.” 

“Does that mean I’m not grounded?” Justin asked hopefully.

“Nice try. You’re definitely grounded. That’s my responsibility as your father, and there need to be some serious changes, kid.” Matt touched Justin’s cheek with his free hand, the slightest brush of his fingertips before moving them away. “When something happens, you need to let us in. And if you are threatened in any way, you don’t shrug it off. You are not disposable and you need to wear that idea like it’s armor. If it helps, before you act, ask yourself: ‘Would I want Clay doing this?’”

 _Fuck._ Those final words hit Justin like a punch. Matt had known that framing it in that way, in relation to Clay, would be the strongest way to impart the lesson. Once again, Justin was _seen_ but—unlike with his mother—being seen didn’t hurt when the person who saw him so completely was this man. 

“I understand,” he said hoarsely. “And I– I don’t want to see my mom again.” 

Matt exhaled slowly, a sigh of relief. “Good. Because we weren’t going to let you see her, regardless of what you wanted.”

Justin laughed and then quickly sobered. He pulled away from Matt so he could look him in the eyes. “I know that it’s your decision, but can I call her… my mom… to say goodbye? We can put it on speaker and you can listen to everything we say. I just think… I think it should come from me.”

Matt gave him a sympathetic smile. “I need to speak to Lainie about it first.” He tilted his head. “And why is that?”

“Because we don’t make momentous decisions on our own.” Justin grinned. “And also because you’re whipped.”

Matt patted his leg. “Right on both counts.”

 

* * *

 

Justin knew it was a sign of trust that Matt and Lainie were going to let him say goodbye in private. He was in the den with Matt’s phone and the rest of them were in the kitchen, busy with some random task that Lainie had assigned. 

His mom picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” She sounded vaguely drunk or vaguely high... or maybe merely exhausted. It wasn’t his responsibility to determine which one it was and, if she wasn’t sober enough to understand or remember their conversation, Matt would take care of it going forward.

“Mom, it’s–, it’s me.” He rested his forehead against the front window and, to be sure, added, “Justin.”

“Oh, baby,” she murmured. “I’m so, so sorry for how I acted today. I was strung out, and you were right. You were right about Seth. Justin? I’m not going to give him any more money.”

“Good.” It was hard to believe her, harder still not to want to do so.

“And this whole situation with the money you stole… I’m going to take care of it for you. I’ll get Seth off your back. I promise, honey.”

Justin was not going to indulge her. He would not ask her any questions; he didn’t want to risk getting caught in another web of intrigue and deception. “Mom, I want you to leave it alone. Okay? You need to change apartments so that Seth can’t find you again, and then you need to forget about him... and about me.”

“Justin? I… I didn’t catch that last part…?” She sounded so pitifully confused and he wanted to snap at her and console her in equal measure.

“I called because… because… fuck, this is hard to say.”

“You can say anything to me.” _Since when, Mom?_

“I’ve been where you are, and people took a chance on me. The same can be true for you—if you’re willing to ask for help. You have to stop letting men control you, and you need to try to get clean. I know it’s fucking hard, and I’m not saying it will be easy. But there are some really great addiction clinics in Oakland and Matt can send you the information, if you want.”

Justin took a calming breath. There was no backing out now. He had to do it, had to bring this to its denouement (fuck Clay for drilling that word into his brain). “I want you to get help, but the person who helps you… it can’t be me.” He gripped the phone tighter. “I’m in a good place now and I don’t want to screw it up. I’m happy, in a way I wasn’t when I was with you. So, what I’m trying to say is... I can’t see you anymore. At least not for a very long time.”

His mother was quick with an accusation: “Is this that lawyer’s idea? It was, wasn’t it?”

“No, Mom,” he said patiently. “This is my choice and I think… maybe... it’s what you want too?” There was no answer, which was an answer in and of itself. “Look, you don’t need to worry about me or try to protect me anymore. You’re free. You and me—this can be an ending. A good one.”

It was probably his imagination, but her voice sounded farther away than it had at the beginning of the call. “This is really what you want?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “This is what I want.”

“You know, baby,” she said sternly, “From the moment you first started walking, you were always running away from me.”

“I know.” _Here it comes…_ She was going to guilt-trip him now, and he was going to let her because it would be the final time and he could handle it.

“I guess…” Her voice cracked. “Maybe you finally found someplace where you can stand still. Where you can stop running.”

He squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden burn in his throat. He hadn’t thought it possible but, after all these years, she could still surprise him.

“Justin? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Stop running.” It was a command. 

“I will.” Justin, despite his resolve not to cry, felt a single tear escape and slide down his cheek. _Fuck_. He didn’t wipe it away. Perhaps his mom merited one tear. 

But only one.

“I love you, Justin.” Her words were so soft, so feminine… so primary to his very existence. Her voice had been the first one he had ever heard and it would forever be beautiful to him.

“I love you, Mom.” He did love her. He would never stop loving her. “Goodbye.” He cradled the phone against his face. He couldn’t hang up. He couldn’t do it. 

Five seconds later, she hung up on him. 

It was a release.

 

* * *

 

When Justin entered the kitchen, Matt, Lainie, and Clay all suddenly became very focused on their task: cleaning out the refrigerator. They had clearly been awaiting his return and now they were pretending they hadn’t been. They were ridiculous (and he fucking loved them).

“Everything okay?” Lainie casually asked as she wiped down a shelf with a paper towel.

“Yep,” he said simply and went to help. Lainie gave him a brief hug, Matt nodded at him, Clay threw a crumpled up paper towel at him… Those little gestures of support weren’t anything out of the ordinary. They were typical and expected, an everyday kind of thing. But they meant more today. 

Earlier in the evening, Justin had said harsh words to Matt, but Matt had already brushed them off—an inconvenient leaf falling on your shoulder and that was all. Lainie was still upset at Justin’s actions, but the only reprimand she gave him now was not to retrieve the expired yogurts from the trashcan (because, in the Jensen household, when something had spoiled, you threw it away). Clay, who an hour ago had said that he hated Justin, now pretended to spray him with the antibacterial cleaner, which was forgiveness—even if no one would have known it but them.

 

* * *

 

Once the _Great Refrigerator Cleanout of 2018_ had been completed, Lainie tasked him and Clay with the dishes and then left to talk privately with Matt. She didn’t say it, but Justin knew they were going to talk about Seth. (He wished that Seth would get shanked in jail. Problem solved.)

“I’ll finish up,” Justin offered. “So you can go work on your college applications.”

“Oh, are you sure?” Clay tugged his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t need to work on them, but I do really need to work on our biology project and then do the history study guide. I’m way behind.”

Justin looked down at the plate he held in his hands. “I did them,” he said quietly.

Clay dropped the glass he was drying and it rolled off the counter and onto the floor. Thankfully, it was plastic. “You what?”

Justin picked up the dropped glass and put it in the cupboard. “I finished the study guide in my free period yesterday, and our biology project is done.” 

Biology was the only class Justin had with Clay this semester and, when it had come time to choose a partner for the assigned project, Clay had instantly turned to him and asked, “What topic should we do?” Clay was top of the class and everyone wanted him as their partner, so it was basically an honor to be chosen by him. Justin, to lock it down, had said, “Don’t pick me as your partner. I’ve got better things to do than work my ass off, only to fail to meet your impossible standards.” 

Clay had scoffed. “No matter who I pick, I’ll be doing all the work, so I might as well help boost your final grade.” Which was what Justin had wanted in the first place: the best grade, with the least work. There were perks to having a genius for a brother.

The admission that Justin had, in fact, completed the biology project must have hit Clay hard because, in addition to dropping the glass, he dropped his dish towel in the soapy water. He touched Justin’s forehead in mock concern. “Are you okay? You must be sick or something.”

Justin slapped his hand away. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just… you’ve been so stressed out, and I wanted to help. And I know you’re going to say that you have to do it yourself or it won’t get done right or some shit like that. But I got Jess to look over the study guide after I finished it. And Alex too. They both approved, and they have much better grades in history than I do.”

“Okay,” Clay said with a timid smile. “Thanks. Um, it’s not that I don’t trust you, or appreciate it, but our biology project is 15% of our final grade…”

Justin rolled his eyes. “I know! I asked Matt to help me. He hooked me up with his coworker at the university. She works in chemistry, not biology, but I figured it was close enough. She was a fucking saint and she spent like three hours on the phone with me, which has got to count for something. I mean... you can still proof it and add in all your big-ass words and stuff. I just did the research and the citations and all that time-consuming shit.” Justin paused. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Clay’s mouth was slightly ajar and his eyebrows had arched, as if to say, _’Is this a joke?’_ “You did all of that? It’s usually torture to get you to concentrate on school stuff.”

 _Yeah, it was fucking torture, and I would rather have done an hour of suicides for Coach Patrick._ “Whatever, it’s not a big deal.”

“Well, in that case, after we finish the dishes… Do you want to work on some math?”

 _Why, Clay? Why?_ Justin sighed and leaned his forearms on the sink in resignation. “Okay.”

“I’m kidding.” Clay laughed, a light, weightless sound. “I need a break, honestly, and today was shit. Let’s watch something on Netflix.”

Justin pounced on Clay and wrapped his arm around his neck. This was the fucking best offer and it was even better because Clay had suggested it. His brother was, at long last, finally allowing himself to unwind. “The Walking Dead?”

“Sure.” 

Clay elbowed him in the ribs, so Justin let go of him. Then, with dismay, he studied the sink. There was still a lot left to put away. “Do you want to leave the dishes for later?”

“Yes!” Clay grabbed Justin’s dish towel and tossed it on the counter. “I’ll make popcorn.”

There was only one bag of popcorn left. Justin pretended to be stuffed so that Clay could have it. He loved the shit out of his brother, but it was often hard to say it out loud without it sounding forced or coming off as a joke. Letting Clay have the last of the popcorn was as close as he could get to saying it tonight.

It didn’t even need to be said, not in words, because Clay took the bag of popcorn out of the microwave and he stubbornly found two bowls and haphazardly divided the popcorn in half. Then, he gave the (slightly) larger portion to Justin and, if that wasn’t love, what the fuck was?

As they settled down on the couch and fought over who would get the blanket, Justin thought back to what Clay had told him, days ago: _“Family shouldn’t hurt, okay?”_ It wasn’t true. Family did hurt sometimes. They hurt you as much as anyone else, and maybe even more. The difference was, because they were family, the hurt wasn’t a burden. 

So, maybe family was: _There is no hurt I would not willingly bear for you._ But, no… That wasn’t quite right either. It was too one-sided. 

Clay had given up the fight for the blanket and he was acting like a martyr about it. It _was_ the nicest blanket in the house, so Justin moved closer to his brother and offered to share it. Clay refused but, ten minutes into the episode, he relented and tugged half of it away from Justin. So Justin took a handful of Clay’s popcorn, for no reason other than he could. Clay, in retaliation, took some of Justin’s, which was only fair.

Justin studied Clay’s profile and thought, _I would allow myself to be destroyed for you… but you would never ask it of me, and you would be destroyed yourself to see my destruction._ Was that right? Who the fuck knew?

For Justin, the definition of family was constantly shifting. He hadn’t nailed it down or perfected it yet. All he knew for sure was that family would, first and foremost, always mean _Clay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • The Matt and Justin confrontation could have been so much more angsty than I made it, but I gave them a reprieve. I think Justin would be able to recognize Matt’s good intentions and be quick to forgive. (Besides, Justin himself knows what it’s like to do the wrong things for what you think are the “right” reasons.) 
> 
> • Poor Matt and Lainie. Justin and Clay never learn, do they? ;)

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